


Rebellious

by sabaceanbabe



Series: Victorious-Rebellious [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Community: het_bigbang, F/M, Odesta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabaceanbabe/pseuds/sabaceanbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In which Finnick and Annie turn pirate and accidentally start a second rebellion.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fanmix and cover art by alinaandalion can be found <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/947321">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to deathmallow for being the best beta EVER. ♥
> 
> Warning: non-graphic torture and some violence
> 
> The lullaby Finnick sings in chapter 2 is the Seal Lullaby by Rudyard Kipling.

**Chapter 1 – New Beginnings**

“Finnick, put me down. I don’t need my arm to walk.” In spite of Annie’s half-hearted struggles, her husband refuses to let her go, lifting her from the bloody spot on the deck where she fell, grazed by a Peacekeeper bullet. He carries her to the bridge of the newly named _Victorious_.

The fight with the eight-man crew of the Peacekeeper cutter over a small boat caught poaching in Capitol waters had been brief but intense. Firing on the cutter – and hoping the Peacekeepers didn’t have time to call in the attack – was the only thing they could do to help the Obispo family, friends of young Luis Macray. The newest member of their group of fugitives, Luis had joined them a few days earlier when he’d helped Annie and Paul escape a Peacekeeper patrol only to find himself hunted, as well.

When they’d decided to help the Obispos, Finnick had Paul, his former Peacekeeper guard, take out the cutter’s communications array. Paul had hit it on his first shot, sending up a shower of sparks. Afterward, Annie had acted as spotter for the ex-Peacekeeper, calling out human targets until the cutter’s crew finally began to fire back at them. Although she and Paul, working as a team, had killed two Peacekeepers and injured three more, Annie was the only one injured aboard the _Victorious_.

She has to admit that the jagged tear in her right shoulder and arm, about two inches long and pretty deep where the bullet tore free, looks ugly even with the colors washed out by the cold light of the moon. The pain isn’t bad, but she’s sure that will change once the adrenaline wears off. The wound continues to bleed even with pressure applied and she gives up trying to convince Finnick that it’s nothing. It’s hard to make someone believe an injury isn’t bad when it clearly needs stitches.

Stepping under the roof of the bridge, Finnick sweeps his charts and instruments to the side of his chart table and sets Annie down in the clear space, careful not to jostle her arm. Mairenn, his fifteen-year-old niece and victor of the 76th Hunger Games, switches on the bridge lights and hurries over with the boat’s first aid kit; they’d cut all the lights hours ago to make themselves less of a target for Peacekeeper guns.

For an instant, all Annie sees when she looks at Mair is the girl’s cousin Rhys, who died in the Games she’d won, and she closes her eyes against that unexpected pain. Rhys had been Annie’s constant companion in the days leading up to and during the Quarter Quell, doing everything he could to distract her from the fact of Finnick in the arena. The pain of his loss, of knowing that he died because of her and Finnick as part of Snow’s punishment for their failed rebellion, is far worse than the sting of her arm.

“This’ll hurt, Annie,” Mairenn warns her just before she starts to clean the gash. Staring down at Mairenn’s head as she bends over her work, at her normally bronze-colored hair, lightened to blonde so that she no longer matches the Capitol’s wanted posters, Annie laughs. The sound is harsh in the quiet.

“Oh, Mair, this is nothing. Do what you have to do.” Mairenn, too, was part of Snow’s punishment. Nearly every tribute in the 76th Games had been dear to someone in the rebellion. Finnick’s niece and nephew, Peeta’s friend Delly, Gale Hawthorne’s brother Vick, Chaff’s daughter, Seeder’s grandson, others who Annie didn’t know, all hand-picked by the president. Vick Hawthorne was only twelve years old when he died.

“Mair?” Finnick’s voice pulls Annie back to the bridge of the _Victorious_. He, too, has altered his appearance, his bronze hair turned to a dark-brown at odds with the lighter, reddish stubble on his cheeks and jaw. Mairenn sets aside her bloody towel in favor of needle and thread to close the tear in Annie’s arm.

“She’s lost some blood, Uncle Finnick, but I don't think it's too bad.” Mairenn studies the wound, blood still welling, before she says, “I think three or four stitches should take care of it.” Annie has to admit, if only to herself, that she’s feeling a little light headed, giving credence to the girl’s assessment of her blood loss.

With a worried glance at Annie, Finnick nods and then starts rifling through the charts he’d pushed aside until he finds the one he’s looking for. Bringing it and a small flashlight to the chart table, he spreads the chart out, Annie shifting a few inches to the right to give him more room, and pins the curling corners in place with a book – _The Fisherman’s Guide to District Four, 2nd Edition_ – and one of Annie’s shoes, abandoned earlier that afternoon. A good quarter of the chart curls over the edge of the table. He switches on the navigation system for a moment, jots down some information from the screen, and then switches it off again. It's so quiet on the bridge, just the three of them while the others take care of things across the water on the cutter, that Annie can hear the scratch of pencil on paper as Finnick makes his calculations.

Mairenn douses her needle and thread with alcohol from a small bottle she found in the first aid kit and then, pinching the edges of the gash together, begins to sew. Annie watches her work, unable to quite look away. It feels more odd than painful, the pin prick of the needle, the tug of the thread at her skin. She grimaces but doesn’t cry out at the more forceful tug when the girl finishes by biting off the thread before splashing the area with more of the alcohol.

Shouts from the cutter bring Finnick to his feet; on his way past her to find out what's happening, he lightly strokes Annie's hand. She shivers at the brief touch, but once Finnick is past, the shivering doesn't stop.

"Are you cold, Annie?" Mairenn asks as she tucks in the ends of the gauze that holds her bandage in place. Annie nods, glancing down at the pristine white cloth, almost glowing in the moonlight against the darker shade of her pebbling skin.

“A little.” She feels a little sick as the adrenaline rush wears off and her arm begins to throb in time with her heartbeat. She shivers again, so violently that her teeth chatter for a beat before she clenches her jaw to stop them. _Okay, maybe more than just a little cold. Am I going into shock?_ She curls her uninjured arm protectively over her midriff and the tiny spark of life growing there as Mairenn hurries aft and returns a moment later with a light blanket that she drapes over Annie’s shoulders. Picking up the first aid kit again, Mair rummages through it, looking for something. Outside the bridge, Paul shouts something from the cutter, but Annie can’t make out the words.

Mairenn pours water into a cup from a dispenser attached to one of the columns. “This should help,” she says as she presses the cup into Annie’s hand; Annie looks down at the swirling liquid within. Finnick momentarily distracts them both when he steps back onto the bridge, but then Mairenn says, “Drink it, Annie.” She sounds so much like Finnick’s mother that Annie smiles even as she complies with Mairenn’s order. If it weren’t for Jenna sending a message to her son by way of the Final Eight interviews, she and Finnick would still be in the Capitol under Snow’s control.

“Okay, here’s the plan.” Reentering the bridge, Finnick picks up the chart from where it had fallen to the floor and partially spreads it out between where Annie still sits and the table’s edge. She shifts again to see the chart better, but has to close her eyes for a moment as a wave of vertigo washes over her. “While I’d rather just take us home,” he continues, glancing toward Annie, “Paul and I are going to take the cutter, the Obispos, and their haul back to the mainland. We have to get that fish taken care of before it goes bad or a lot of people will go hungry. Mair, you and Luis will take Annie and the ketch back to Victors’ Island.” He jots down the course for her to follow as he speaks.

“Won’t that be dangerous, Uncle Finnick?” Annie opens her eyes again, focusing on Finnick.

“It will, yes. You’ll just have to make sure you don’t run into any more Peacekeepers.” He hands her his notes and watches as she reads them. “Are you up to it? You’ll have to run dark…” Mairenn nods, her eyes darting across the page as she memorizes the course.

“Papa let me navigate our last couple of night runs before the war.” She sounds a little sad when she mentions her father and Annie recalls that Mairenn hasn’t seen him in months, not since he disappeared along with Finnick’s father and sister just ahead of Peacekeeper forces.

Annie shifts, trying to get more comfortable. Her vision swims and she sways where she sits, more light-headed than ever. When she puts out a hand to steady herself, she sees Finnick watching her with a worried frown.

“Annie?”

“I’m alright, Finnick,” she reassures him. “Just a little woozy.” He leans in and gently kisses her on the forehead, all scratchy stubble and soft lips, then scoops her up once more. Annie is too tired to protest this time as Finnick carries her from the bridge to their small cabin below. Resting her head on his shoulder, she’s asleep before they ever leave the bridge.

xXx

“How does it feel to be back in uniform?” Paul looks up at Finnick’s question, then returns to buckling on his sidearm, white metal against white tunic and trousers beneath white body armor. The only thing that isn’t white is the visor on the helmet, still hanging with its fellows on hooks screwed into the far wall.

“Weird,” Paul replies, checking to make sure his pistol is loaded before replacing it in its white leather holster. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels weird.” Finished dressing, the former Peacekeeper walks over to Finnick and begins tightening the straps on his armor. “These uniforms are a lot more comfortable when they fit properly.” Paul’s armor fits the best of the three, but even so, it’s too loose. Of the eight Peacekeepers on the cutter’s original crew, only three had been uninjured, and none of those unbloodied uniforms is quite the right size for the three men who wear them now. They’ll do, so long as no one looks at them too closely. But then, if all goes well, the fit of these stolen uniforms won’t matter.

“Wait a minute. You’re a _ghost_?” Finnick and Paul look over at Kian Obispo. The shortest of the three men, his uniform fits the worst. Where Paul, even in an ill-fitting uniform, reeks of Peacekeeper, Kian reminds Finnick of a boy in costume playing at Peacekeepers and Rebels.

“Ghost?” Finnick asks and looks back at Paul, who shrugs: he doesn’t seem to know the term either.

“Sorry,” Kian says. “It’s what we called the Peacekeepers during the war. Because of the uniforms.” Finnick makes a mental note to find out what the Obispos did during that time. Given the use of the term “ghost,” he’s pretty sure Kian’s sympathies, at least, were firmly with the rebels.

“ _Ex_ -Peacekeeper,” Paul corrects Kian, straightening the lay of Finnick’s left shoulder piece. “Or should I say ex- _ghost_? It was kind of a dead-end job.” Finnick laughs as Paul takes a step back to survey his work. Apparently satisfied, he turns to inspect Kian and Finnick steps out onto the deck. Two more steps to the left bring him to the ladder that leads up to the cutter’s command center.

The command center is nothing like the tiny bridge on the _Victorious_ and it takes Finnick a few minutes to familiarize himself with the million and one readouts and switches that make up the main console. As far as he can tell, the only thing with a manual option is the steering; unlike the ketch, everything runs electronically from the command center, and there are no sails. Given the scarcity of fuel in the district, they’ll have to look into fitting the cutter for sailing if they decide to keep her. _Although what choice do we have? We can’t just take her into town and sell her._ He snickers. _That’d go over well. For sale: one Peacekeeper cutter, slightly used, sold as is._ Finnick smiles at the thought.

Behind him, Paul enters the command center and Finnick’s smile fades. Still studying the console in front of him, he asks, “Are you sure taking out the communications array killed the ability to track this beast?”

“I’m sure, Finnick, but if it’ll make you feel better…” Paul hunkers down beside the control console and reaches underneath, feeling around for a second before he rips out a pair of red and black wires, holding them up to waggle at Finnick. “Radio doesn’t seem to be working,” he deadpans and Finnick laughs.

“How’d you know that was there?” Paul straightens and sets the wires on a narrow shelf near the door. “You never served on the water…?”

“The powers that be try to keep things like that console as universal as possible. It makes cross-training more efficient.” Kian, just coming up the ladder, pauses for a moment, his eyes on a level with the wires dangling beneath the console.

“You are like no Peacekeeper I’ve ever met,” he tells Paul, stepping up fully into the small room. Abruptly filled with three adult males, all wearing body armor, the command center is more than a little cramped.

“Nope. But then I’m not one anymore. Remember?” Facing Finnick, Paul asks, “Where do you want me, boss?”

“Take a rifle up top and yell if you see anything we should worry about.” Paul nods and squeezes between Finnick and Kian to head back down the ladder. Once he’s past, Finnick leans across the console and slides the closest window open then does the same on the other side, the better to hear if Paul does call down to them. Since they have no radio.

“Do you think we’ll run into trouble?” Kian looks and sounds anxious and it occurs to Finnick that the older man is under a good deal of stress, leaving his wife and son – however temporarily – with complete strangers, their livelihood destroyed, their last bit of potential income stored in jury-rigged coolers aboard a stolen government vessel.

“No,” he tells Kian, reasonably sure that it’s not a lie. “It’s two in the morning and as far as anyone we might run into between here and the mainland is concerned, we’re the big threat.” He’s far more worried about the _Victorious_ ; they’d left for Victors’ Island a good twenty minutes ago, maybe a little longer. He’d given Mairenn a straightforward course making the assumption that the cutter they’re on now was the only one in the area and that her former crew hadn’t called for help. What else could he do? Both Stefana and Kevan Obispo are experienced sailors, as is Mairenn.

Annie, too, knows her way around boats in general and the ketch in particular, but she was out cold by the time he’d laid her in their bunk. He’d thought at the time it was the shock of her injury, but now he’s not so sure. _Okay, so maybe I’m a little anxious, too. Let’s just get this done, Odair, so you can go home to your wife._

“All right, Obispo, where are we heading?” Looking out into the night, Kian jumps at the sound of Finnick’s voice. He turns as Finnick fires up the engines and the navigation system. Finnick knows in general where they’re going and expects something along the lines of “two klicks south of the public docks” or the like, but Kian surprises him by rattling off specific coordinates. It would be easy enough to enter them into the computer and let it calculate the fastest course, but he doesn’t want to risk it even with Paul’s reassurances. Instead, he makes note and sends the cutter forward, spinning the wheel until they’re heading in the right direction.

“The harbor master was expecting us at moonrise,” Kian continues and Finnick’s eyebrows shoot upward as he dials the lights down, leaving the command center in near darkness, lit only by the glow of the navigational instruments – speed, depth, compass heading – the better to see what’s out ahead of them. Moonrise was a good two and a half hours ago.

“The harbor master?” Arturo Fallon had been harbor master back when Finnick helped his father with the fishing, including the occasional “night fishing” trip. That had been before Tom began to distrust his younger son, before he believed that Finnick had become “too Capitol” and feared that he’d turn them in for poaching. “So who has the honor these days?” According to Luis’ father, the Capitol had replaced most of those in key positions when they retook the district.

“Arturo Fallon’s held the job for… ten years?” Kian says. “He’s done a good job, although I have to admit I never expected him to survive the purge.” Finnick laughs, not at all surprised.

“My dad always said Fallon was part cat.” Fallon was a man known for both his shrewdness and his greed. “Dad also said the man would sell his own mother if he thought he could make a profit.” _Snow would love the guy._

“Well, I just hope he’s still willing to take care of our haul.”

The cutter slices through the water toward town and the two men fall silent, Kian lost in his own thoughts while Finnick considers the things he’s seen and heard in the past few days, trying to distract himself from worrying about Annie.

The news shows proclaim that things are improving in the districts as rapidly as they are in the Capitol, proof that the rebels hadn’t done much damage in a rebellion that was doomed from the start. But while things might be improving in the Capitol, Finnick had seen with his own eyes that that isn’t the case in the districts, at least not in District 11 when they’d passed through or here in 4.

The Peacekeeper presence when they’d gone into town for supplies just a few days ago was heavier than it had been before the Quarter Quell and the Peacekeepers themselves more arrogant. According to Luis, the curfews are strict and the sanctions for even minor infractions are harsh. Those sanctions are the reason the boy is with them now, instead of in school or helping his father in the general store. Peacekeepers had tried to stop Annie and Paul for questioning when they saw them with Luis in violation of an order against public congregation. Luis had helped Annie and Paul escape and the Peacekeepers had identified him in the process. At sixteen, the laws of Panem might not see him as an adult yet, but that wouldn’t stop them from charging him with anything up to and including treason.

And earlier that day, Peacekeepers had stopped the Obispos with every intention of confiscating their day’s haul for their own profit. They might not have killed them outright, but they’d taken the fish aboard the cutter along with the family and then scuttled the boat.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do.” Kian breaks the silence along with Finnick’s train of thought and it takes him a beat to catch up.

“Your boat?” he asks and Kian nods.

“She was finally paid for. We owned her outright and now…” He leans back against a clear space on the wall, the Peacekeeper uniform making of him a pale blob in the darkness – a “ghost.” Kian scrubs a hand over his face and continues, “It took the last of our savings to pay her off. There’s nothing else. We even lived on her after the Capitol took over the housing complex we lived in.”

“The Capitol took your home?” Again, Kian nods.

“They convicted the couple who owned it of treason after the war. The Capitol confiscated all their property, so a dozen or so families were suddenly homeless.” He pushes away from the wall and walks over to stand beside Finnick. “Lucky us, they said we could stay, but we had to pay the new rate.” He looks at Finnick. “It was too high.”

Finnick makes a slight adjustment to their course. He can see the ebb and flow of light on the horizon from the lighthouse on the mainland, just outside of town, and judges that they’ll reach their destination in another twenty minutes or so. They’ll need to get the cutter in, unloaded, and out as quickly as possible, and the sooner he gets back to Annie, the better.

Between her injury and her pregnancy, he won’t feel at ease until they’re together again. What he’d like to do is hide her away someplace safe, but there isn’t any such place. And they’d both decided they no longer wanted to run, which was why they’d returned to 4 in spite of the risks. It’s home. He glances over at Kian again, and an idea percolating in the back of his mind crystallizes.

“Join us,” he says, following his gut.

“I… What?”

“You said it yourself. Your boat is gone. You have nowhere else to go. So join us on Victors’ Island. We don’t have much, but there’s plenty of work to do, both on the island and on the boats.” They’d built a small shelter on what had been the uninhabited side of the island – a different kind of ghosts haunted where the victors of District 4 had once lived – but mostly they’d been living on the ketch. Or at least, he and Annie and Mairenn had; Paul and Luis used the shelter or simply slept on the beach under the stars. “We’ll feed you,” he offers as incentive, “and there’s no rent.” Kian snorts at that.

Out of the corner of his eye, Finnick sees another ghost appear in the open doorway, helmet in place and rifle hanging by a pale sling over his right shoulder. “Paul? Everything okay?”

Pulling off the helmet, Paul hooks it on the door’s prominent hinge. “Yeah, there’s nothing out there,” he tells Finnick and, when he sees both him and Kian watching the helmet sway on its hook point, he pokes it. “The optics are a hell of a lot better than straining my eyes in the dark.” He glances at Kian. “You _should_ stay with us,” he says, a clear indication that he heard most if not all of their conversation. And then he looks pointedly at Finnick once more. “And we should have killed the rest of those Peacekeepers. They didn’t get a good look at you or Annie or your niece, but they I.D.ed both me and Luis, not to mention our friend here.”

“I’ve had enough of killing, Paul.” He knows Paul is right, that letting them live will create yet more trouble, but he’s been killing people off and on for almost half his life. Killing those men and women would have been more blood on hands he could never wash clean. More faces and voices to parade through his sleep. Beside him, Paul sighs.

“I know, Finnick, but things would be so much simpler. It’s not going to be safe for us on the mainland for a while.” Shaking off his own maudlin thoughts, Finnick forces a grin.

“I’m sorry. Was it safe before?” he says and Paul laughs.

Glancing from Finnick to Paul and back again, Kian asks, “What kind of work?” Finnick makes one last minor course adjustment before answering.

“Landfall in ten,” he announces and then turns toward Kian. Paul shifts to stand just outside the doorway, where he can both hear whatever Finnick and Kian say and watch the enveloping darkness.

“The island was pretty well flattened by the Capitol,” Finnick begins. “We’ve only been there for a few days, and a good chunk of that has been spent teaching Paul here and Luis Macray to sail.”

“I thought that was Luis I saw on your boat. Rumor has it he ran into trouble with the Peacekeepers maybe a week ago.”

“That would be when he helped us elude a patrol,” Finnick confirms.

“Fucking ghosts,” Kian mutters under his breath, but Finnick ignores it.

“We need to pick through the debris for whatever’s salvageable, figure out if we can use it ourselves or get it to someone else who can.” In truth, they’d been avoiding the other side of the island. Neither he nor Annie is quite ready yet to face the ghosts – the echoes of the dead, not the kind that wear white uniforms – they’ll find there, and the others haven’t pressed them on that. “Of course, at some point, we’ll need to figure out what we’re doing long term. And there’s the little matter of having stolen a Peacekeeper cutter…”

The feel of the cutter slicing through the water changes and Finnick cuts back on the throttle, gesturing for quiet as he kills the remaining lights. He can see in the moonlight what appears to be an abandoned dock up ahead, the attached boathouse half caved in on itself. The nearby beach, white sand glowing under the moon’s cold light, ends abruptly in a rocky wall, the drop from above a good twenty feet, the rock face itself pockmarked by black holes that Finnick suspects hold nothing more sinister than birds’ nests. Farther along the rock wall he sees a patch of deeper darkness, a shadow large enough to swallow the cutter. Probably a cave, he thinks and glances over his shoulder at Kian.

“Yes, this is the place,” he confirms and Finnick slows the cutter, guiding her in the last few yards to a dock that looks almost as unstable as the boathouse, but the feel of it is as solid as that rock wall when the cutter bumps against it.

“Now what?” Finnick asks Kian as he kills the engines and lashes down the wheel. He tells Paul to head forward to tie her off as he heads aft to do the same, but even as he steps out of the command center he glances down as a red dot blooms on his body armor.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you where you stand, Ghost.” The cutter drifts a little away from the dock, but only on one end; the forward end is stable and Finnick hears the unmistakable sound of a round jacked into a rifle’s chamber.

“Don’t shoot! We’re not Peacekeepers!” Kian shouts, running forward. “I’m Kian Obispo!”

After a tense moment, the red light winks out and the same voice calls out, “You’re late, Obispo.”

Finnick calls, “Let it go, Paul,” and a beat later Paul steps into view, his rifle pointed at the planks beneath his feet rather than at the man standing at the far end of the pier.

“If you’re not ghosts, then who the fuck are you?”

xXx

Annie wakes to the scent of wood smoke and roasting fish and the sea, to a metallic taste on her tongue and a stiffness in her muscles. Her stomach growls loudly, embarrassingly, but there’s no one there to care. She’s alone. There’s no sign of Finnick save the depression his head had made in the pillow beside hers and a circle of knotted rope in the center of that depression: a bracelet, by the look of it, with a lovers’ knot as its centerpiece. She smiles, wondering when he wove it, and notices that bitter, metallic taste again. She rolls onto her right side to reach for the bottle of water she keeps handy on the small shelf beside the bunk, wanting to wash that taste from her mouth, but bites off a cry of pain as flame seems to engulf her shoulder and upper arm.

She had forgotten about her injury, but with the surge of pain, it all comes flooding back. The tense, hours-long game of cat and mouse with the Peacekeeper cutter… The ensuing fight… Three dead Peacekeepers… The bullet that tore through her arm… Moving more gingerly, she sits up, swinging her bare legs over the side of the bunk.

Keeping her injured arm close to her chest, she grabs up the pair of shorts on the end of the bunk. It’s difficult pulling them on and fastening them with one hand, but she manages; she doesn’t bother putting on a bra or changing her shirt, deciding that the t-shirt she slept in will do, under the circumstances. The shirt isn’t the same one she wore when the Peacekeepers shot her.

Along with the smells of food and home, laughter and a rhythmic tapping dance in on the breeze. Tap. Tap. Taptap. Scrape tap. Planting one knee in the center of the thin mattress, she leans toward the small window. Just outside, maybe fifteen or twenty feet away, the Peacekeeper cutter floats at anchor, the sun so high in the sky – what her Gran always called “the crack of noon” – that she casts barely any shadow onto the surrounding water flashing blue-green in the bright light.

Standing on either end of a small boat tethered to the cutter’s starboard side, Luis and Mairenn apply paint to the hull, he with a roller and she with a large brush. Two sections that were once white are now the muddy gray-blue-green of a stormy sea; they’ll soon merge to become nearly a quarter of the starboard side. The paint, rollers, and brushes had been part of the supplies they’d picked up the day they’d added Luis to their little family.

“What are you going to do below the water line?” Annie calls out and Luis turns sharply toward the sound of her voice, nearly dropping his roller. She hears Mairenn laugh again as he juggles it, flinging paint out to float in speckles on the water.

“Uncle Finnick, Annie’s awake,” she calls and Annie pushes back from the window. Snatching up the bracelet and stuffing it into the pocket of her shorts, she climbs the few steps up to the deck of the _Victorious_ , heading toward the port side railing, bare feet slapping on the planks. Shading her eyes against the sudden glare, Annie sees Finnick step out of the cutter’s command cabin and she stumbles. Feeling more than a little off kilter – _you’re a beautiful man, Finnick Odair, but you’re not that beautiful_ – she steadies herself on the railing, holding on tightly with her left hand until the vertigo passes, wondering what caused it. She didn’t lose that much blood.

“I still want to know how you’re going to paint the underside,” Annie calls to them and Mairenn smiles up at her.

“Uncle Finnick said to just worry about the parts people can see.”

“Annie, wait there!” Finnick shouts across from the cutter. “I’ll come get you.”

But Mairenn forestalls him. “Don’t worry about her, Uncle Finnick. We’ll bring her ashore.” She grins at Annie. “Now that you’re awake, we get to eat.”

A few minutes later, they’re all on the beach around a simple meal of roast fish and dried fruit from their last supply run into town. Annie nibbles at her food – in spite of her growling stomach, after her first bite, she’s afraid she won’t be able to keep it down – and stares into the still-glowing embers of the fire Stefana Obispo had used to roast the fish. Conversations swirl around her – Paul and Kian, Finnick and Mairenn, Stefana and her son Kevan and Luis – but their words don’t touch her and she drifts, fades out.

The sound of splashing and laughter draws her back, disoriented, the sun noticeably lower in the deep blue sky. Glancing over her shoulder toward the water, she sees Kevan and Luis chase after Mairenn into the waves. A little way from where they run, Finnick sits alone on the beach and Annie braces her weight on her left arm and rolls to her knees.

“Do you need a hand, Annie?” Stefana offers. Paul and Kian glance her way and Paul starts to get up, but Annie waves him off.

“I’m just a little stiff from sitting too long,” she tells them and they return to their conversation as she rises awkwardly to her feet.

Annie shuffles through the soft sand to sit beside her husband; Finnick glances at her and his expression softens for a moment before he looks out once more over the water. Annie follows his gaze to the two boats swaying with the motion of the waves that roll in from the deeper water, breaking apart when they meet the boats’ hulls or the slope that leads up to the beach. Although he’s there with her physically, he’s miles away.

“Finnick?” Sitting to his right, she shoulder bumps him – carefully – and asks, “What can I do?”

He drags his gaze away from the boats and gives her a lopsided half smile. “Don’t mind me. I’m just thinking about how the hell we got here.” Annie takes his right hand and lifts it so she can kiss his palm before twining her fingers with his. Finnick shifts and pulls her into the circle of his arms, maneuvering until she’s in front of him, his legs to either side of hers. He doesn’t let go of her hand even when he carefully slides his free hand under her damaged arm to spread his fingers out over her still-flat stomach. When he rests his chin on her good shoulder, a wave of contentment washes over her.

“Do you regret it?” she asks him after a time, the fleeting moment of peace fading as her worries begin to creep back in. “The baby? Running away? The Peacekeepers last night?” Even though she never clearly saw their faces, they fell endlessly in her dreams, splattering her hands with their blood. Finnick shakes his head, then brushes his lips against her temple, the lightest of kisses.

“No…” He shifts again, just a little, and she can feel him looking down at her. “I don’t think we could have done anything differently.” He tightens his arms around her then, and whispers into her hair, “Except for the part where you got shot.”

“Finnick, I’m fine.”

“You lost a lot of blood.”

“No, I really didn’t. It just looked like a lot.”

“You needed stitches,” he reminds her, pulling his hand from her stomach to trace his index finger along her right arm.

“Yes,” she agrees, shivering at the light touch, “and Mairenn did a great job of that. I bet it won’t even scar.”

He starts to say something else, but Annie twists, raises two fingers to his lips to stop him. He does stop talking, but only to nip at her fingers and then suck them into his mouth. Annie gasps at the sudden heat that shoots through her and Finnick slants his mouth over hers, taking full advantage of her parted lips. Everyone and everything else fades away as Annie sinks into his kiss, only to rush back in all too soon when a shriek of laughter and a series of violent splashes nearby remind her that they’re not alone. She breaks the kiss and Finnick makes a disappointed sound low in his throat. He doesn’t let her go, but neither does he kiss her again.

“Later,” she promises, tracing his lower lip with her fingertip; again, he nips at her finger.

“Isn’t this what started this in the first place?” he laughs. Pulling her back against his chest, Finnick changes the subject to something less volatile, if no less important. “So what comes next? Not just for you and me, but for all of us.” They both watch as a smiling Mairenn trudges dripping out of the water, wringing her hair out as she goes and leaving the boys to splash at each other.

“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t thought much about it.” For so long, all she could think about was simply staying alive and free, more worried about what might happen if they were caught and taken back to the Capitol – back to Snow – than what a real future might hold.

“Short term, we need to make sure Paul can pass for a local.” Annie smiles at that; Paul is very much a product of his native District 2, from his Career swagger to his military precision, even the short cut of his dark hair, which he’s letting grow out again after several weeks of shaving it all off.

“You can take the boy out of the district…” she starts.

“But you can’t take the district out of the boy,” they both finish. It was something Mags used to say, usually in regard to tributes or new victors. Annie had first heard it during the week leading up to her Games, mostly directed at Finnick, but the old woman would occasionally change it to “girl” and apply it to Annie, too.

“I miss Mags,” she says and Finnick’s arms tighten for a moment.

“So do I, love,” he tells her in a rough whisper and kisses her hair. When he speaks again, returning to their previous topic, his voice is steadier.

“There are too many of us now to just live on the boats; we have to do something about building a real shelter soon. We’ve been damned lucky we haven’t had any bad storms yet.” Annie nods. The storm that took her mother when Annie was eight had hit in early September; it’s the sixth of September now, or maybe the seventh.

“And then there’s the matter of keeping ourselves out of trouble,” Finnick continues. “The ketch was made for pleasure cruises. The cutter is meant to chase down criminals.” He laughs. “I don’t know how to work that into the fact that we _are_ the criminals.”

Annie quips, “Maybe we should just become pirates.”

“That would certainly be easier than rigging that cutter out for fishing. We could go after smaller cargo ships…” Hearing the smile in his voice, she grins up at him.

“We could lure Capitol tourists with the promise of a pleasure cruise on the _Victorious_ and then hit them with the cutter and take all their valuables.” The cutter that, earlier that day, Mairenn and Luis worked on painting a more neutral color than white, a gray harder to see from a distance and harder to keep track of once it _is_ seen. Annie’s grin fades as her thoughts begin to spin.

“We could give whatever we take to the people in the district who need it more,” Finnick is saying, but then he interrupts himself to laugh. “Who am I kidding? We’re talking about Capitol citizens. They wouldn’t have anything we need.”

Still frowning, Annie says, “But we could sell their jewelry and use it to buy things from local merchants. Things people _do_ need, like food or medicine.” Finnick looks at her sharply.

“Annie, what’s wrong?”

“Us,” she tells him, troubled. “What we’ve already done. This conversation.”

“Annie…”

“Up until last night, we’ve done what we had to do to survive. If we do this thing we’re talking about, then we really _are_ criminals.”

“Annie, we already are. If the Peacekeepers take Mairenn, she’s a victor, with all that entails. Her life will be hell, but she’ll live. Even Snow can’t truly claim she’s done anything wrong. But Paul? You and me? I’m surprised no one has tried to collect on those wanted posters we saw in Eleven. We’ve embarrassed him, love. He won’t go back to selling us; he’ll kill us.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do. He saw an opportunity before to keep profiting from us, but he won’t make that mistake a second time.” He pulls away from her then, shifting again so that he’s facing her. He reaches out to cup her cheek in the palm of his hand.

“Annie, we could help the people of our district. Kian told me on the way back this morning that last night wasn’t the first time Peacekeepers stopped them and took their haul. And he said that’s been happening more often, and because of it more people are going hungry.” He strokes her lips with the pad of his thumb as he searches her eyes. “We were joking before, yes, but… We could do this.” He finally looks away, drops his hand to his lap. “I don’t want to just wait around for the day someone decides the reward is too high to pass up.”

Swallowing hard, she grabs his right hand with her left, pulling his attention back to her. “We should talk to Mr. Macray,” she tells him. “Find out all we can about what’s happening in the district. Maybe no one has tried to collect on those posters because they don’t want to give us back. And maybe rather than turning us in, someone will want to work with us.” She raises his hand to her mouth and kisses his knuckles. “If we’re going to crew two boats, we need more people.”

A grin slowly spreads across Finnick’s face. Standing, he offers Annie his hand and they walk together back toward their camp.

xXx

Even now, months after the Capitol dropped its bombs, the stench of burned plastic is acrid and cloying, invading his nostrils and clinging to his clothes as Finnick stands in the middle of what was once his kitchen. He exhales sharply in an attempt to blow it out, but only succeeds in sucking in more of it when he inhales and he begins to cough, his eyes to water.

_Thin tendrils of acrid mist climb up from the ground like ghostly fingers, creeping up past his knees, his hips, growing more insistent as they pull themselves higher, catching at his throat. Inescapable. Burning his skin. Burning his mouth and his throat and his lungs…_

With a sharp cry, Finnick slams his fist into his thigh and the phantom mist vanishes. Annie watches him from a few feet away, concern in her beautiful eyes and a scrap of bright red cloth in her hands; the ends of it ripple in the breeze that blows in from the sea. He recognizes it as the silk scarf that Angel Banyan used to use to tie her hair back from her face when she worked in her garden. He waves to Annie and forces his expression into something he hopes is a reassuring smile, although he’d be happy if it just covered up a little of the anxiety.

Apparently it works, as Annie returns to picking through the ruins, pausing now and again when bits of debris catch her eye: a broken picture frame here, a melted bit of glass or misshapen piece of metal there. He focuses on her instead of on their current surroundings – she centers him as nothing else can.

Rather than returning to the ketch last night to sleep in relative comfort, they’d stayed on the beach under the open sky; he wonders if that might have something to do with the memories surfacing of his most recent stint in the arena. When he woke that morning, later than he’d wanted, Annie was already gone and although the sun was well up over the horizon, the only other person stirring was Stefana, starting a fire to boil water for coffee. He’d looked around for Annie, but didn’t see her until Stefana waved a greeting and then pointed toward the beach grass higher up the slope toward the island’s interior. He’d waved his thanks and gone in the direction Stefana indicated. He’d caught up with Annie halfway to the cove where the flattened houses of 4’s Victors’ Village had been and then walked with her the rest of the way holding hands, neither of them saying anything.

A bright flare draws him toward a jumble of burned timbers and twisted metal approximately where his and Annie’s bedroom used to be. He toes at the debris, glad he decided to wear shoes instead of going barefoot. Partially uncovering a length of delicate silvery chain, he bends to hook it with a finger. One tug and it easily slips most of the way free of the larger bits of debris surrounding it, but then stops. Crouching, Finnick digs, not wanting to destroy something so fragile, yet that had survived the Capitol’s violence, finally freeing a diamond pendant that had lodged in a tangle of wires.

_Finnick, my dear, I know this is meant for a woman to wear, and you are decidedly not a woman, but I’d like you to have it anyway. Consider it a thank you for a lovely evening._

He lets the pendant hang from its platinum chain; the diamond catches the weak sunlight that filters through the low scudding clouds and returns it in bright flashes of yellow and green and blue. Mrs. Tanger had been the first of his patrons to salve her conscience with an expensive gift; he’d still lived with his parents then and thought to give it to his mother, but when he’d unpacked his things, he’d decided he didn’t want anything of his life in the Capitol to touch his family. But he’d never gotten rid of it.

He stands, twirls it around his index finger once, twice, then catches it and slips it into his pocket. _If nothing else, it’ll help pay for some of our expenses_ , he thinks as he goes back to sifting through the pile of blackened, burned rubble he’d once called home.

The ghosts had come out to play before he and Annie had reached the high point of the island, courtesy of the rooftops that should have been visible over the scrubby vegetation, but weren’t. At first, it was memories of his friends: a whiff of Mags’ jambalaya, spicy with a touch of sweet; a peal of laughter from one of Jack’s little girls; a wordless growl of irritation from the always intense Angel, directed at the rarely serious Martin, who had loved to tease her. But when they crested the hill to look down on the pitted, scorched ruins and the smell had hit him, it was as though the mutts had come to play, bringing with them arenas and sewers, the stench of war and of human cruelty.

A light touch on his arm and he jumps, stumbling on a twisted length of metal. His arms pinwheel as he fights to regain his balance and Annie grabs his right wrist and tugs him toward her. He crashes into her, his arms reflexively closing around her, and she laughs even as she hisses in pain when he jostles her injured arm. Her laughter makes a little of the grayness fade from the morning.

Before he can apologize for hurting her, she rises up on her toes to kiss him. “It’s okay, Finnick. You didn’t hurt me.” No longer in danger of falling, he loosens his hold on her as she brings her left hand up to cradle his face in her palm, leaving her right arm sandwiched between their bodies. Searching his face, not letting him look away from her, she asks, “But what about you? Are you okay?” He thinks about lying to her, but not for long. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers.

“No, I’m not okay.” She strokes his cheek and jaw with her thumb. “Annie, we’ve got to look for someplace else. I can’t stay here. So many ghosts…”

“I know.” She tilts her head, shifts so that she can kiss his lips. “I might have been one of them, if you hadn’t made me promise to stay with your family.” He tightens his hold on her and buries his face in her hair. “The Capitol didn’t leave us anything to rebuild.”

“No. I kind of pissed them off.”

“Oh, Finnick. This wasn’t you.” She forces him to look at her again and the love he sees reflected in her eyes might have sent him to his knees if she weren’t holding him so tightly. He doesn’t answer that; he knows she’s right, that Snow is ultimately responsible for the wreckage, but he’s right, too. Snow wouldn’t have destroyed their homes so thoroughly if he hadn’t been so clearly part of the conspiracy that brought down the Quarter Quell arena.

“We could somehow rebuild on the other side of the island,” Annie offers, sounding tentative, and Finnick shakes his head.

“It’s alright for now, but not long term. The houses were on the leeward side for a reason.” Before Annie became a victor, Jack Hull and his boy had built a playhouse a few years ago on the windward side, not far from where they’re camping out now, but it had only lasted a few weeks of almost constant wind, and storms every few days. They’d found it in pieces scattered over the beach and the sandy hill following a storm that hadn’t even reached hurricane intensity. That playhouse had been small, but it was as sturdy as any of the Capitol-built houses in the cove.

“So we’ll have to find someplace else.” Finnick nods, thinking.

“Why don’t we grab Luis and take the _Victorious_ into town. We can talk to his dad about other living considerations and…” He grins down at her. “And maybe about other lifestyle choices.”

xXx

The moment she sets foot on the skiff, her head starts spinning and her stomach roils. Annie quickly retreats, sloshing through the surf back to the beach. Finnick calls her name, standing almost knee deep in the water. Luis is already on board. She wants to be with them when Finnick talks to Mr. Macray, feels like she’s letting him down when she calls to him, “I’d better stay here, Finnick.” Rather than yelling at him some more, she pantomimes being sick, holding her stomach and then holding the back of her hand to her forehead and making a face at him. Shaking his head, he laughs and nods, hopping into the little boat and setting it rocking. He starts the motor and she waves at them as they head out across the bay.

When Annie can no longer see the skiff, she wanders along the beach, listening to the wind and the surf. She didn’t want to worry Finnick, but she isn’t convinced this dizziness has anything to do with her pregnancy. It doesn’t feel the same as it did with her first pregnancy and she suddenly remembers the cup of water Mairenn gave her the night before. Annie stops and turns, looking back toward their camp.

 _This should help… Drink it, Annie._ At the time, Annie had thought she referred to the water itself, but now she thinks maybe Mair gave her more than just water.

A gust of wind makes her shiver and she starts to walk again, still moving farther down the beach, away from the others. Their voices grow less distinct as the distance increases, morphing into the remembered laughter of a pair of little girls and Annie feels the sting of tears behind her eyes.

“Oh, Moira, Mia, I miss you, little ones.” The last time she saw the girls was the night their father committed suicide rather than face the possibility of returning to the arena. Peacekeepers had taken them away along with their mother and brother and no one had heard from them or of them again. She wonders if any of them are still alive.

She doesn’t know how far she walked or how long she’s been gone when a wave of nausea hits her. It’s so strong she simply drops to her knees and leans forward, retching onto the wet send; a moment later the surf glides in, swirling around her knees and retreating, taking some of the sand supporting her with it. She wipes her mouth with the back of her right hand, the other she curls around her stomach; she tenses when someone else’s hand comes down lightly between her shoulder blades.

“Annie?” Paul asks. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t try to follow when she scrambles away from him, simply leans back on his haunches and watches as her brain slowly makes the connections between that unexpected touch and his identity. Friend, not foe. Not someone who would hurt or use her. She closes her eyes even as she fights the sudden impulse to cover her ears with her hands, blocking out sound along with sight.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Annie.” She hears his voice above the surf, hears the concern threaded through it, and she feels heat rise in her cheeks. She forces herself to breathe normally. In. Out. In. Out.

“I know you won’t, Paul,” she says, opening her eyes. “You startled me, that’s all.”

“You didn’t eat much at lunch.” She offers him a somewhat shaky smile.

“The baby’s making it hard to keep anything down.” Relaxing, she shifts until she’s sitting in the sand, no longer trying to curl up and hide, and Paul moves to sit beside her, careful to keep a little distance between. She’s grateful for that. “Hopefully, it’ll pass soon.” It had with the first pregnancy, only lasting a few weeks. “Why were you following me?”

“Your husband asked me not to let you out of my sight.” Annie raises one eyebrow at that.

“He did, did he?”

“He worries,” Paul says, grinning. That simple statement holds a wealth of meaning and Annie’s irritation fades. Of course Finnick is worried about her. Sometimes she’s surprised he’s even willing to leave her side, with all that they’ve been through.

xXx

There are four of them tacked to the left side of a notice board at the end of the main pier, just before the walk drops off onto Dock Street. Wanted posters. They look like they’ve been there a while, with that not quite wrinkly, fragile look paper gets when it gets wet and then dries, but yet they’re not so old that they’ve either faded or yellowed, like several of the other notices. The posters for both Finnick and Annie use photographs taken during Mairenn’s Closing Ceremonies. He assumes Paul’s is from around the same time, but since he’s in uniform, it’s hard to tell; regardless, it’s a recent picture. The one for Luis looks like it might be from his school identification card and is the only one that resembles the person the Peacekeepers hunt.

When Luis comes up beside Finnick, the boy glances at the posters, whistling at the sums offered for the two victors and the ex-Peacekeeper; Finnick makes note of the fact that Snow wants them dead or alive, something Paul neglected to mention when he first saw wanted posters for them a few weeks ago, when they passed through District 11. “I’m going to have to have a little talk with Paul about withholding information,” he mutters under his breath, because it’s either that or something has changed. Across the street, a pair of Peacekeepers are looking in Finnick’s direction.

“Wow. Nobody’ll even look twice at me once they see the reward for you.”

“Stow it, Luis,” Finnick orders with a nod toward the Peacekeepers. He pushes Luis into the shadow of the notice board, hoping that he’s out of their line of sight. His heart in his throat, Finnick nods to them as they pass, keeping his expression neutral but with a hint of subservience. His appearance is either different enough from a distance of thirty yards or so that they’ll ignore him and move on, or it isn’t; there’s nothing he can do about it either way, since they’ve already seen him. The male ignores him and the female returns his nod, but they both accept the sight of a brown-haired, stubble-bearded fisherman without a second glance. They don’t seem to notice Luis and Finnick releases the breath he holds.

“Stay where you are,” he tells the boy and moves to the other side of the board, pretending to read the notices there, more copies of the posters among them. The poster for Luis is torn, as though someone ripped it from the board and then reattached it using extra tacks to put the pieces back together. His eyes catch on an older poster, yellowed and stained and peppered with holes where other things were posted on top of it. He stares at the faces of his father, his brother and sister, his uncles and his niece, all labeled as traitors and rebels. Finnick’s fingers itch to tear them all down, but he forces himself to leave them there. Nothing says your targets are in the area like wanted posters suddenly gone missing.

“Let’s go,” Finnick says when the Peacekeepers turn a corner. “Keep your head down.”

They hurry to the shop, not stopping along the way except to let a group of Capitol tourists in their too bright clothing and with their unnatural hair and skin colors pass. Overhearing them talk about being late for their harbor cruise, Finnick turns to watch them go, smiling as he recalls Annie’s joking suggestions about tourists and cruises.


	2. There Once Was a Pirate

**Chapter 2 – There Once Was a Pirate**

The air is so humid Annie feels almost as though she’s swimming as she browses the shelves of Edwin Macray’s general store. She trails her fingers along the edge of a shelf, looking down at the neatly folded sweaters stacked there. It’s a reminder that colder weather is on the way, although they’re far enough south that it’s never too cold.

“Do you have any valerian root, Mr. Macray?” Annie turns to look at Mairenn, standing beside the counter, backlit by the nearby window. Beyond her the afternoon is gray and Annie thinks rain can’t possibly be far away, as wet as the air is. She picks up a deep blue cable-knit sweater, liking the feel of it against her palms. _This would look good on Finnick._ If they had any money to spare, she’d buy it for him.

“Powder or pill?” the merchant asks Mairenn. Finnick stops beside his niece.

“What’s that for, Mair?”

“Powder, Mr. Macray.” To her uncle she says, “I used what was in the first aid kit when Annie was… when I bandaged Annie’s arm. It reduces pain and helps you sleep.” Annie puts the sweater back down and looks sharply at Mairenn. _Is that why I felt so out of it the day after?_

“You what?” Finnick asks, frowning. Annie starts to weave her way through the tables and shelves of merchandise toward the counter. Outside the window she sees people scurry about as rain begins to fall in heavy sheets; the bell over the door to the shop sounds as someone runs inside.

“She was hurting and Gramma always says sleep is best for healing. I just…” Her voice trails off as Annie reaches them and lays a hand on Finnick’s arm; she hasn’t seen him this angry in a long time.

“She’s pregnant, Mairenn,” Finnick spits out, his voice raised. Annie says his name and squeezes his arm, nodding toward the man who just came in as he wipes his wet face on his sleeve and looks around the store. His gaze passes over them, but Finnick’s eyes widen in recognition. Turning back to Mairenn, he lowers his voice so that only she and Annie can hear. “Did you even think of that, let alone bothering to ask her?”

“No, Uncle Finnick, I…” She sends a stricken look toward Annie and says, “I thought it would help her. And I’m sure Gramma gave it to Aunt Shandra when she was pregnant with Rhys. I don’t understand why you’re so mad at me.”

With another glance at the dark-haired man by the door, he grinds out, “This isn’t the fucking Capitol. You gave her something without even telling her. You—” He starts to say something else, but Annie stops him.

“Finnick, it’s okay. She didn’t mean anything by it.”

“And _that’s_ supposed to make it okay? We have no idea how something like that could affect the baby.”

“The baby is fine, love,” she says, her voice calm and soft as she glances toward the stranger, but he’s paying them no attention, more interested in a shelf of canned goods on the far wall. She thinks he’s too far away to hear them anyway.

“You don’t know that,” Finnick replies, no longer quite so intense.

“It won’t happen again, Uncle Finnick. Annie, I’m sorry.” Annie nods and gives the girl’s arm a reassuring squeeze. Finnick still looks unhappy, but not quite so angry when he taps his fingers once on the counter.

“Maybe Macray knows a good doctor,” he says as he walks toward the other end of the counter, where Edwin Macray retreated in the face of their family discussion.

xXx

Finnick sits with Annie at a table meant for four in the back of Danny Malone’s tavern, the Shark Bait. He’s been here many times before, but the most memorable – in a surreal, fever dream sort of way – was the day Snow announced the terms of the Quarter Quell. He’d been here with his father and his uncles, Corin and Rick. Rick was dead now, executed for treason, and his father and Corin hadn’t been heard from since the war ended and they’d gone into hiding along with Finnick’s brother Kyle, his sister Shandra, and his niece Alona, Kyle’s oldest child. Thinking about his family now, he’d like to seek out his mother, living with friends here in town, but Peacekeepers have the house under surveillance, so he hasn’t even chanced sending her a message. If the Peacekeepers thought he was this near, they’d simply take her into custody, hoping to force him to come forward.

The door to the tavern is open to let in the light from the late-afternoon sun and the early autumn breeze which flows around the large room as easily as the various conversations. Beside him, Annie literally picks at her fish sandwich, pulling bits of bread from it and dropping them onto a small heap in the center of her plate. Wondering if she’s going to eventually eat it or just play with it, Finnick smiles and sips at his beer, listening to the conversations that surround them.

“Did you hear Andy Delmar collapsed yesterday? They say he starved to…”

“… raised the damn quotas again.”

“You can’t live on what little they leave us.”

“… paid a weeks’ wages just for two hours out on the bay. Can you believe that? It’s enough to make…”

“Are they ever going to cut Reyes down?” Even in the dimness in the back of the tavern, Finnick sees Annie shudder at that last, asked by a woman one table to their left.

“Is that the man we passed in the square?” she asks, her voice low. Finnick nods.

“It must be.” There had been a sign hanging across the man’s chest indicating he was a poacher, a three-time offender. He’d been there so long his flesh was picked over by birds and insects; what little remained still clinging to his bones had turned black and leathery in the sun and salt air. Finnick didn’t want to meet the Head Peacekeeper who would do something like that. Leto, the Head just before the Quell, was replaced sometime after the Games.

“Finnick. Two o’clock.” Paul, sitting at the bar behind them, directs them and both he and Annie look toward where he indicates. The sunlight streaming in through the open door is blinding and all Finnick sees is the black silhouette of a man weaving a path between tables, heading more or less directly toward them. It wasn’t an issue when they arrived hours before, and by the time it was, there were no other tables available. The man stops beside them and Finnick stands, shifting so that he’s no longer blinded.

The man –Finnick’s age, a few pounds heavier from muscle, an inch or two shorter – is the same one who sought shelter from the rain in Macray’s store a few days earlier.

“Finnick Odair.” He shakes his head. “If Danny hadn’t told me who you are, I wouldn’t know you.” Smiling a little nervously, he holds out his hand, but Finnick doesn’t take him up on the offer to shake. He feels Paul walk up behind him and to the right.

_That first day back at school, six weeks after he returned home a victor, Finnick went to his morning classes, endured the whispers and the stares, and as soon as the lunch bell rang, he hit the cafeteria. When he got to his usual table, tray in hand, his friends were already there – Marco and Trevor and Cayleigh – along with a couple of other kids he didn’t know. He set his tray down on the table and held out his hand._

_“Hi, I’m Finnick Odair.” The boy just stared at him. They all stared at him._

_No one said anything at first until the new girl looked him up and down and said, “Why are you here?”_

_Confused, Finnick responded, “I go to school here?”_

_“You’re a victor,” the boy said and still they all stared._

_“I know,” Finnick said and dropped his hand. Cheeks flaming, he glanced at his friends and slid into his seat, but before he settled into his chair, the others stood. Marco was the last, clearly reluctant, but he joined them, even so. And still, none of his friends said anything._

_Two girls ran up to Finnick then, asking for his autograph and the group that had been at the table took over an empty table near the wall, away from Finnick. Finnick grabbed Marco’s arm as he walked past while the girls whispered to each other and waited for their autographs._

_“What’s going on?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady, but just then Trevor called Marco’s name._

_“Finnick, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.” And he hurried off to join his group, leaving Finnick staring after him._

“Problem?” Paul asks and the man drops his hand along with his smile. Under cover of the table, where no one else can see, Annie brushes her fingertips against Finnick’s, a feather-light touch that’s there and then gone. He takes strength from it, wondering, as he always does, how she can possibly know that he needs it.

“No problem,” Finnick tells him, his tone carefully neutral. He resumes his seat, grasping Annie’s hand beneath the table and Paul fades back to his stool at the bar, where he has a better view of the tavern’s common room.

“Don’t you know me, Finn? I know I’ve changed since we were kids, but—”

“I know who you are, Marco.” He can feel Annie watching him, but he doesn’t look away from this man who used to be his friend. He knows he’s holding too tightly to her hand, but he can’t make himself let go as all those old feelings come flooding back, the hurt and anger and embarrassment when his friends abandoned him all those years ago. “Sit.”

Marco sits across from Finnick as Annie kicks Finnick under the table and he finally tears his gaze away to look at her; he still feels it on his ankle bone where the hard sole of her shoe struck. “Are you going to introduce us?” she asks him pointedly.

“Marco Sullivan, this is my wife, Annie.” Marco’s eyes widen and he looks from Finnick to Annie and back again. “Marco and I met when we were five and were pretty much inseparable until I was reaped.” She leans in a little closer to Finnick then and he knows he must be hurting her hand. Abruptly, he releases it, but she doesn’t move away, just lays it on his thigh, a steadying pressure. A peal of laughter rings out from a table near the door, quickly followed by several other voices. Marco says something, but Finnick doesn’t hear it, momentarily lost in another memory of two twelve-year-old boys sneaking into the Shark Bait through the open door and slipping behind the bar to steal some beer or whatever else they could get away with.

“Why are you here, Mr. Sullivan?” Annie asks.

“Danny put out the word – discreetly – that your husband was back in the district and looking to hire a few able bodied seamen.”

Annie starts asking the questions she’s heard Finnick ask half a dozen times that afternoon and Finnick lets her as he tries to reconcile the hurt little boy he once was with the man he is now, who needs to hire a few men and women to work his boats.

xXx

They lay naked in their bunk on the _Victorious_ , rocking on the water as she strains at her anchor. Although Annie can still feel the way he moved inside her, Finnick’s head rests on her stomach, his stubbled cheek scratching a little at her skin; his warm breath tickles every time he exhales. His hair is growing out – as is hers – the darkness of the dye slowly giving way to his normal bronze color and she hopes he’ll let that continue. She threads her fingers through the soft strands, combing it over and over as she listens to the water lap against the hull.

Everyone else is either on the island or the _Notorious_ , the name she gave the cutter the day they saw a news clip from the Capitol in the Shark Bait Tavern. The reporter called its capture an act of piracy on the high seas, committed by the notorious Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta, victors turned rebel, criminals who threw President Snow’s mercy in his face when they broke their parole and ran from the Capitol. She smiles as she remembers the applause offered up throughout the tavern. Within moments, Finnick and Paul had started talking about things like homemade mines they could use as an underwater fence around the island.

Finnick shifts and slowly strokes his thumb over her hip as he begins to sing softly, a lullaby. She doesn’t recognize it at first, but she strains to listen, feeling his voice sink into her skin and bones, flowing with her blood to every part of her body.

_Oh, hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,_  
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.  
The moon, o’er the combers, look downward to find us,  
At rest in the hollows that rustle between. 

_Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,_  
Oh weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease.  
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,  
Asleep in the arms of the slow swinging seas. 

Annie closes her eyes, lets herself drift as the soft sound of her husband’s voice, singing that ancient song, surrounds her and their child, weaving a cocoon around them. She sleeps.

xXx

They take the freighter without a single shot fired. She’s larger than the _Victorious_ and _Notorious_ combined, and has more manpower, but the moment her captain realizes who it is chasing them, he slows.

Her refrigerated hold is filled with fish and shellfish bound for the Capitol by way of District 4’s rail hub. Finnick and crew stop her about twelve miles from shore.

Despite the fact there’s no resistance, Finnick’s heart is in his throat the entire time. The whole thing is like a dream and even when it’s over, when they take the freighter and her cargo to a drop point south of town and turn things over to Arturo Fallon and Danny Malone for distribution to the people of the district, he feels like he should be waking up any minute now. And then he laughs, although it’s not a happy sound. _If this is a dream_ , he thinks, _there’d be a lot more death and blood and I’d wake up screaming._

xXx

Annie stands a little above the water line on hard-packed sand; the tide is coming in, so she’ll have to move soon if she wants to keep her feet and the bottoms of her jeans dry. The gusting wind whips her hair around her face, stinging where the ends strike her cheeks and forehead, but she doesn’t do anything to stop it. She watches as the sun sinks lower in the sky, just kissing the horizon and setting fire to the clouds, sleekly braided mares’ tails turned gold and lavender, fuchsia and rose and tangerine. The setting sun is warm on her face even as she pulls her thick sweater more tightly around her.

In spite of the wind’s attempts to blow the sounds away, she hears Finnick’s footsteps when he comes down the slope of the beach to join her. She wasn’t sure if he would, but she’d hoped… In their more than five years together, Annie can count the number of arguments they’ve had on the fingers of one hand. She hates it when they fight, doesn’t like feeling as though there’s an invisible wall between them.

He stops behind her, not close enough to touch. She tears her gaze away from the brilliant gold light of the sun, the ever intensifying colors reflected in the clouds, to look down at the gentle swell of her stomach, at the belt that holds her jeans closed since she can’t button the top two buttons. _Your father and I wouldn’t have fought today, if it weren’t for you, little one._ She’ll have to see if Stefana or Mrs. Macray might have anything looser that she can wear, at least for a few months.

“Annie, I’m sorry.” His voice is rough, as if he might have been crying. She lifts a hand and spreads her fingers over her stomach and the life growing inside her.

“I’m sorry, too,” she says, barely more than a whisper, but he hears her all the same; the same wind that tries to take his voice away from her carries her voice to him. He takes two small steps forward and slips his arms around her waist, tentatively at first, but when she doesn’t step away, he pulls her back against his chest, joining his right hand with hers over their baby. With his free hand, he gathers her hair and pulls it back to trap it between her shoulders and his chest. He kisses the spot on her neck beneath the point of her jaw.

“I know you would never do anything to hurt the baby,” he says against her neck. “I know that, but I…”

“But you worry. I know that, Finnick. I worry, too.” She tilts her head a little to the right to rub her cheek against his. “I want this baby. I do.” She turns around in his arms, slides hers up around his neck, rests her forehead against his. “But they told me once that you were dead.” That awful day, locked in a cell in the depths of the Capitol, surrounded by strangers who knew all about her but who she knew not at all, Snow had told her Finnick died when the arena fell. “I can’t go through that again. If you go into danger, then I’m going with you.” She tilts her head to kiss his mouth. “It’s hard enough for me to let you go when all you’re doing is going into town.” She kisses him again, more urgently. “Please don’t ask me to stay on the island when I might never see you again.” When she kisses him again, whispering, “Please don’t leave me,” he kisses her back and his arms tighten around her as she repeats “please” over and over against his mouth.

Finally he tears his mouth from hers and pulls back, pushes his fingers into her hair and swipes with his thumbs at tears she didn’t know had fallen. “Annie, I love you. We’ll figure something out.”

xXx

Finnick lifts his sunglasses to check their heading and glance at the course Paul follows with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel. Grinning, he drops the glasses back over his eyes and says, “You’re doing fine, Paul. Relax.” It’s the ex-Peacekeeper’s first time doing everything by himself, from figuring their course to steering her in. They’ve been out for hours and Paul has been nervous the entire time, but those white knuckles are the only obvious indication. _The man’s a rock_ , Finnick thinks, _which is only fitting for a man born in District 2._

Paul slants him a look and then sets his dark eyes back on the horizon. “I’ll relax when we make land.” Finnick laughs.

“Listen to you. You’re starting to sound like a native.” Paul snorts. Finnick leans back against a bridge roof support and studies the man who he now counts as a friend. If it weren’t for Paul Rubius, he and Annie would still be in the Capitol, they’d still be used by whoever paid Snow’s asking price. The fact that they’re not and that this new child will be born far from Snow’s icy reach is a debt Finnick can never repay.

“Why’d you do it, Paul?” he asks. It’s a question that’s been on his mind for months, ever since that night on the train. Paul glances at Finnick again and then once more returns his attention to steering the boat. Finnick doesn’t press for an answer, but after a minute or so, Paul gives him one, of sorts.

“Did you know that I was on track for the arena?” Finnick lowers his glasses a touch to peer over the tops at the older man.

“Really. No, I had no idea.” Although District 4 trains its children so they at least have a chance at survival in the Games, it’s nothing like the training in Districts 1 and 2. Especially in 2, where the vast majority of those trainees go on to be Peacekeepers. “I guess I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“I was in Enobaria’s class.” Another glance at Finnick and then away again. “But where she was tapped to volunteer our last year, they decided I wouldn’t work out after all.” Finnick raises one eyebrow at that.

“Why not?”

Paul smiles, but doesn’t look at Finnick, instead keeping his gaze carefully trained on his instruments. “It seems I have a fairly strong sense of empathy.” He laughs. “I was told that while I had what it took to become a victor, I was not suitable to _be_ a victor.” Finally he raises his eyes to look at Finnick once more. “They thought if I won the Games, I’d end up more like you than, say, Enobaria or Brutus.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Finnick quips.

Paul deadpans, “They didn’t want to risk a victor from Two becoming an emotional wreck.”

“Oh, ouch. Just for that, Mr. Rubius, you get to scrub out the bilge.” They both laugh, but then Paul turns serious.

“The Capitol, and especially President Snow, never treated you with the respect you deserved as a victor. But worse, you and Annie and those kids from Twelve, from where I sat, were little more than property. And if Snow treated you that way, then I couldn’t help but believe that he treated our victors that way, too.” He frowned as he said it, looking as troubled by it as Finnick had ever seen from the usually unflappable Paul Rubius. “Enobaria and Lyme both confirmed that.”

“You spoke to them about it?”

“Yes, when I had downtime during the Games.” He slants another look at Finnick. “Snow should never have put Lyme in a control collar.” He looks down at his coordinates and makes a slight course correction. “And having done that, he should never have sent her as an example back to Two. He should never have tortured Enobaria as though she were a rebel.”

“She wasn’t. A rebel, I mean. I tried to talk her into it in the arena, at the end, but she still didn’t join us.”

Paul snorts. “That was then.”

“Oh, really?”

xXx

The water is calm and there isn’t a breath of wind as Annie walks along the railing, pausing every few yards to watch out along the horizon. They’ve been out since just after dawn, testing the refurbished winch and the new fishing nets they’d finished installing the day before; once they’ve gathered up enough fish to make the trip worthwhile, they’ll head into town to trade for fuel for the engines. It won’t be a wash, but the trade should make up for the shortfall in their cash. At least that’s the hope.

Rounding the bow, she sees nothing troubling in the path ahead. Neither were there any problems to either aft or port, but there’s a flash on the flat horizon to starboard. Lifting her binoculars, she focuses in on the area and sees another boat. From this distance, she can’t tell anything useful about it, not size or configuration or whether it might be friend or foe. She leans into the _Victorious’_ bridge and catches Finnick’s attention.

“We have company to starboard. They’re too far away to tell anything.”

Nodding, he tells her, “Keep an eye on them.” Shifting, she leans back against one of the bridge support struts and lifts a hand to shade her eyes from the hazy sun. In spite of the sunshine, Annie smells rain; there is a front rolling in from the west, and it must be getting closer.

Another flash and she raises the glasses again. “Finnick,” she calls over her shoulder. “They’ve turned toward us.” She still can’t identify her markings, but they draw noticeably closer as she watches through the binoculars. “They’re moving pretty fast.” Behind her she hears him swear and then call for Kian and Marco.

The light grows dimmer as clouds roll over the sun. A gust of air swirls over the bridge to caress Annie’s face, much cooler than the ambient air temperature and she sees a jagged line of lightning over the water to her right. A few seconds later, Marco slips past her with a murmured apology as he hurries to man the forward gun, a belt-fed machine gun transferred from the _Notorious_ and concealed beneath a tarp and some coils of rope. As soon as he’s past, she checks again – the other boat is close enough that she can see the Capitol markings and the spray of water in her wake.

“They’re Peacekeepers,” she calls, “and they’ve definitely spotted us.” Another gust of wind whips the ends of Annie’s ponytail across her cheek, more a slap than a caress, and a rumble of thunder sounds in the distance. Lightning lights up the ugly gray clouds overhead and when the wind gusts again, it doesn’t die back down. The sails start to fill and she hears Finnick directing Stefana and Luis to secure things against the storm as the _Victorious_ begins to roll with the suddenly heavy seas.

Annie jumps at a sharp crack followed by a low rumble of thunder and the skies seem to open up, rain coming down in cold, gusty sheets. The wind picks up and the seas swell and Annie grabs hold of the support strut just to keep her feet under her as the _Victorious_ rolls with the wind whipped waves. She can see the Peacekeeper cutter, larger than the _Notorious_ , without the aid of her binoculars now, they’ve come so close, her running lights and the lights in her command center cutting through the sheets of water flowing from the sky.

She’s already nearly blinded by rain when a spotlight from the cutter tries to finish the job, locking onto her face before she has a chance to turn her head to the side. There’s another sharp crack that she at first thinks is thunder, but then she hears the ping of metal striking metal and something hits her cheek, stinging. The Peacekeepers are shooting at them – at her.

“Finnick!” Annie shouts in warning as she drops to the deck outside the circle of light, and Marco opens up on the cutter with the machine gun. There is answering fire from the Peacekeepers as Finnick turns the ketch hard to port.

A spear of lightning rips down from the clouds and strikes the Peacekeeper’s command center with a shower of sparks and the acrid stench of ozone, both quickly washed away by the driving rain. The wind and sea seem to lift the ketch up and throw her back down again and Annie’s breath catches in her throat as her feet go out from under her; the only thing that keeps the water that suddenly covers the deck from sweeping her overboard is the arm she manages to lock around the starboard railing when she hits it with bruising force. It feels as though one of her ribs snaps, a bright bloom of pain as the water roars in her ears and the earth heaves beneath her. A cannon report splits the air as a wall of dark green water rushes toward her and Annie begins to scream.

xXx

In the wake of the storm, Mairenn spots a small chain of islands, dark smudges on the horizon, and Finnick has Stefana steer the _Victorious_ as best she can in that direction. They’re almost out of fuel, they have a cracked mainmast, they don’t know where they are, and there’s a Peacekeeper cutter out there somewhere; they’re not going home just yet.

He carefully sets Annie down on their bunk and she immediately curls in on herself in the center of the mattress, covering her ears with her hands. He reaches out to stroke the wet tangle of her hair.

“Annie, love,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. “Please don’t leave me. I need you.”

She’s shivering, but there’s nothing he can do about that. Between the rain and the waves that washed over the ketch in the course of the storm, everything is waterlogged, even the mattress on which she lies, and they don’t have any dry clothes to change into.

Her eyes are open, but unseeing, focused inward rather than out. Finnick doesn’t know how many times he’s seen her like this over the years, fewer and fewer as she moved further from the arena, but this is worse even than when they first took to the water during their escape through District 11. Her state now is akin to the days when she was fresh from the Games and he thinks it must be because of the waves that crashed over the deck during the storm mimicking her flooded arena.

“Uncle Finnick?” He starts at the sound of Mairenn’s voice behind him, tries to cover it up by straightening Annie’s wet clothes. He turns his head to look at his niece over his shoulder. “We’re anchored. Stefana found a little cove on one of the bigger islands.” He nods and she steps into the cabin, stopping beside him.

Looking down at Annie, she asks, “Do you think she might feel better on land?” and Finnick knows she’s thinking of their first trip on the open sea, too. Annie blinks once, slowly, and shivers, drawing herself into a tighter ball. He sits on the edge of the bunk and pulls his wife into his arms. When he’s sure he has control of his voice, he looks up at Mairenn.

“It can’t hurt.” Behind her, he sees the sun shining as though the storm they just passed through never existed. “You and Luis arm yourselves and go ashore, make sure there aren’t any unpleasant surprises waiting for us. Have Marco check in with me regarding the damage to the mast. Set everyone else to cleaning up unless Marco needs them for repairs.”

Over the next hour or so, Finnick sits with Annie and listens to the sounds of the crew moving around the _Victorious_ , putting things back where they belong. Marco reports that he should be able to rig the mast so they can make their way back to Victors’ Island without using the engines, provided they don’t run into any more storms or high winds. Or Peacekeepers.

It’s still a bit of a shock to Finnick even after almost two weeks, seeing his former friend on a regular basis. There’s an invisible wall between them that was never there when they were kids, though, and he wonders if that wall will ever come down. They haven’t talked much since Annie convinced him hiring Marco would be a good thing. Paul had concurred, or he wouldn’t have done, even with Annie’s blessing.

When Mairenn returns and says she and Luis found no signs of human habitation and no evidence of potentially dangerous wildlife, he has the two take Annie ashore in the skiff while Marco, Kevan, Kian, and Stefana work on shoring up the mast. “I’ll come ashore and stay with her as soon as I figure out where we are,” he tells them as he heads back to the bridge to take a reading from the ketch’s navigation system.

The only thing in their favor at the moment is that the storm that blew them off course and damaged their mast also tore half the command center from the Peacekeeper cutter, taking with it most of their electronics. The Peacekeepers are running blind, deaf, and dumb and have far more important things to worry about than catching a group of renegades. Or so Finnick hopes. Snow’s wanted posters do say “dead or alive” and the reward offered is substantial.

He makes note of their current location and compares it to the map. He’ll work out the details of the course when they’re ready to leave, but it looks like it won’t take too long to get home, provided Marco can stabilize the mainmast enough to run under sail without worrying about losing it entirely. Marco’s father was a shipwright and Marco used to help him in the yard when he wasn’t in school. Even though he turned to fishing as an adult, that early experience gives them a far better chance than they’d have if Finnick had left him behind.

When Finnick checks in before going ashore, Marco tells him that, if all goes well, they’ll be able to sail in a couple of hours. It’ll still be light out long enough to get them most of the way to Victors’ Island, not that it would be a bad thing if they waited until dark before setting sail.

The water is warm and welcoming when Finnick dives off the back of the ketch. The cove, the beach, the trees, they all remind him of the Games, but he tells himself as he surfaces that he doesn’t have to worry about someone trying to kill him here or what kind of or how many mutts there might be lurking beneath the surface of the water. Taking a deep breath, he goes under again and lets the water’s peace take him as he swims underwater toward shore, and when he surfaces once more, Mairenn stands ankle deep in the water, watching him. He floats a little closer and then slogs through the waves to join her, shaking water from his hair like a dog. She leads him up the beach toward the trees where Luis sits with Annie; she’s no longer curled into a fetal position, but rather sits rocking on the beach, looking out at the blue-green water.

“If you two want to go explore, I’ve got her. Just be careful and don’t go too far,” he tells them. “The repairs will take another couple of hours and we’ll leave as soon as we can after that.”

He drops to the sand beside Annie and, although she doesn’t stop rocking, doesn’t change her expression, she leans into him. That simple fact, so clearly not accidental, goes a long way to quieting the loop of _what if she doesn’t come back this time?_ that’s been playing in the back of his mind since the storm ended.

Mairenn disappears into the trees after Luis and Finnick can almost see the monkeys just inside the tree line, waiting, although he knows there’s nothing there. He hears a screech off to his left, coming from somewhere in the jungle, and a shudder ripples through him. His first thought, even though it sounds nothing like a human voice, is _jabberjays_ and he tells himself to stop it.

Rolling onto his back, Finnick pulls Annie down beside him and rests her head on his shoulder. One arm loosely holding her, he puts his free hand under his own head and stares up at the dazzling blue sky. There aren’t even any clouds to distract himself with, so rather than think about the arena and monkeys and jabberjays – rather than giving in to irrational fear – he pushes his brain into more productive waters.

It’s early November. They’ve been in District 4 for a little over two months and the Peacekeepers know they’re living on Victors’ Island, although they haven’t tried to do anything about it since they lost a boat to Paul’s mine field. Between that, the lookout posted on the knoll whenever they’re on the island, and Paul’s contacts within the Peacekeeper ranks, they’ve managed to be someplace else every time it became an issue.

The baby is due in mid-April, and while the weather can still be dicey that early in spring, it should be warm. Even so, he wants to have a less well-known place to live well before then, which means abandoning Victors’ Island as soon as they can. They could probably find a place on the mainland. No one he’s run into so far would turn them in, but then he knows better than anyone that everyone and everything has a price, and the rewards offered by the Capitol for their capture are high enough that he’s tempted himself.

He closes his eyes against the dazzling sun. Annie is a warm weight by his side and she’s no longer trembling. Finnick begins to relax, listening to the sounds of the wind and the water, the sounds of home. We could always settle here, he thinks. The islands weren’t on the maps or charts when he compared the _Victorious’_ current position to them. Working out some of the things they’ll have to determine before they make a decision, he slips into sleep.

xXx

Hushed voices wake Annie. She doesn’t know who they belong to – it’s hard to identify little more than whispers – only that they’re talking about whether or not it’s safe to leave “them” on the beach alone while those voices go off to explore. A shadow falls over her and Annie forces herself to remain still, to keep breathing evenly; the shadow moves away.

“They’re both out. I think they’ll be fine.” There’s nothing after that, just the sounds of the sea, the wind through leaves, the steady beat of Finnick’s heart. She remains still for a little while longer before opening her eyes.

Her head rests on Finnick’s chest. Without moving, she sees the _Victorious_ at anchor, the blue-green of the water melding with the blue of the sky, the only thing marking the separation between being the sparkle of the water under the sun. From the angle and feel of the light, she judges it’s mid-afternoon. She has no idea where they are; it’s not Victors’ Island.

She sits up carefully, not wanting to disturb Finnick, and only then becomes aware of how sore her body is, how stiff her muscles are. Her throat hurts and when she turns a certain way, her left side hurts. And then she remembers.

Annie remembers, but it’s all a tangle in her mind. A wall of dark green water slamming into her and dragging her under. Spinning endlessly, end over end, sinking with nothing to grab onto to save herself. Her lungs desperately in need of air but finding none to breathe. Screaming her throat raw until there was no more sound. Clinging desperately to the railing as the green and salty water pulled at her, streaming over the deck and over the side. Thunder crashing. Cannons crashing. Lightning crashing. Hands dragging her away from the metal railing, the only point of stability that remained.

She lifts her hands to her head, covers her ears, squeezes her eyes shut so hard she sees little flutters of white light. She doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t. After a moment, she forces herself to breathe again and to lower her hands. She doesn’t open her eyes, though. Concentrating only on breathing slowly and naturally, she starts to feel the warmth of the sun on her arms and legs, on her face, to smell the sweet scent of the wind flowing through the trees to play with her hair and stroke her face, to hear the white noise in the background that is the sea. She opens her eyes.

Finnick sleeps on his back on the sand, one arm flung over his head, the other – the one she slept on – out to the side. Even in sleep, he looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes and tiny lines between his eyebrows that she doesn’t recall seeing there before. She reaches out to smooth those lines but pulls back before touching him. Instead, moving cautiously because of her stiff muscles, she kneels beside him and leans over. Holding her hair back, she lightly kisses that spot between his eyes; he murmurs something unintelligible and shifts, but doesn’t wake, and Annie smiles.

Sitting back, she looks around at the wall of trees that lines the beach. The direction of the sun tells her that when they lay down, she and Finnick were in the shade. There’s a path into the trees nearby, but it’s not where the whisperers went to explore; the footprints in the sand lead farther up the beach, away from the _Victorious_. With a glance at her sleeping husband, Annie rolls to her feet and heads toward the path.

It’s not really a path, she sees when she gets closer, but a dry stream leading from the trees down to the water, breaking up and spreading out in tiny runnels and shallow canyons when it reaches the beach. Annie hears a weird cry that might be a sound of distress, coming from somewhere up the path, but when she stops to listen, she hears nothing more threatening than the breeze and a few insects. Peering into the trees, she hears the sound again, sees a flash of bright yellow as something small passes through a patch of sunshine on the ground.

Biting her lower lip, she looks back at Finnick and then forward into the trees again. _It’s only a few feet in…_ Calling herself a fool, knowing she shouldn’t, especially if, as she suspects, she had another flashback to her Games – what if Finnick wakes and finds her gone? What if she has another episode? – she follows the streambed into the trees and stops at a small clearing about twenty feet in.

Staring at her from the middle of the clearing is a bright blue and yellow bird with a great black beak and pale, suspicious eyes. It holds one wing out to the side and when Annie takes a few steps closer, it drags that wing along the sandy ground as it tries to back away from her.

“I won’t hurt you, little one,” she tells it and steps closer yet. It squawks at her and flaps its good wing, stirring up dust and sand. She looks around for something to keep the bird’s beak occupied and finds a stick a good inch or so around, but the bird surprises her by stepping onto the stick, rather than attacking it. Still, when she reaches out a tentative finger to touch its back, the bird screeches at her, the sound almost deafening, and she falls back with a startled laugh.

xXx

A bloodcurdling screech splits the air followed by a thick, unnatural silence punctuated only by the breaking waves. Finnick surges to his feet, spinning in place, but sees no one. He’s alone.

“Annie…”

The birds and insects that make up the background noise resume their songs as Finnick runs up the beach toward where the sound came from. He doesn’t hesitate, plunging into the jungle, ruthlessly quashing the sudden fear that tries to overtake him. Remembered terror is no match for what’s running through him now.

“Annie!” he shouts as he crashes through the trees and undergrowth. “Annie!” He sees her on the ground beside a patch of bright blue and yellow in the middle of a small clearing. It takes him a moment to process that it’s not the right color for blood, that there’s no scent of blood in the air, only something sweet, like honey or vanilla. “Annie?” She’s not hurt. She looks up at him and he’s torn between the terror that still makes his heart pound and elation that she’s come back to him, that she’s no longer trapped inside her own head.

His heart in his throat, he comes closer, drops to his knees beside her, searching her face. “I heard a scream…”

“It wasn’t me,” she says. “Oh, my love, it wasn’t me.” She looks down at her lap and back up at him. “It’s okay, Finnick. I’m fine. It’s just a bird.” She seems to realize then just how frightened he still is and reaches up to touch his face. “It wasn’t a jabberjay, love, just a bird.” He blinks and the patches of brilliant color resolve into blue and yellow feathers and a shiny black beak.

The bird hisses at Finnick, staring at him with unblinking pale gray eyes. “A bird,” he repeats, his pulse finally beginning to slow. “It’s a macaw.” Annie reaches for Finnick’s hand and the bird – a young one, from the size of it – puffs up its feathers and flaps its wings. Or rather it flaps one wing; the other remains at an unnatural angle along its side.

Finnick relaxes back onto his heels, twisting his hand around to grip hers tightly. Closing his eyes, he sways in place as he pushes the terror back down into its hole. Annie lifts Finnick’s hand and kisses his knuckles; he raises his free hand to stroke her cheek.

“I don’t suppose there’s any possibility that we’re not taking the bird with us?” he asks. Annie’s answering smile is radiant and Finnick dissolves into somewhat hysterical laughter as Mairenn and Luis come crashing through the trees.

“Uncle Finnick, we—” She stops and Finnick watches as she takes in the scene, her expression changing from fear to confusion. Luis kneels beside Annie and reaches toward the bird, making it squawk again, which just makes Finnick laugh harder.

“It’s hurt…”

“You’re as bad as she is,” Finnick says, nodding toward his wife.

In the end, Finnick gives up his shirt to wrap the bird so it can’t hurt either itself or anyone else, and they all troop back through the trees to the beach. It reminds him once more of the Quarter Quell arena – Mairenn and Luis instead of Katniss and Peeta, Annie instead of Johanna – but this time the memory doesn’t bring fear with it.

When they leave the jungle, a shout from the _Victorious_ breaks the illusion. Looking in that direction, he sees Stefana waving at them. “She’s ready to sail!” His gaze shifts to the mainmast, standing straight and tall like its fellows.

Lifting his hands to form a cup around his mouth, Finnick shouts, “We’re on our way!”

Once back on board, it doesn’t take Finnick long to confirm their position and then put together a course to take them back home in as short a time as possible. If they don’t run into trouble, they shouldn’t have to fire the engines. Running strictly under sail, they should dock in less than two hours, not long after nightfall.

Annie takes the juvenile macaw below to their cabin; although Marco and the Obispos look as though they want to say something, either about the cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms or about her recovery from the near catatonic state in which she left, they don’t. If they have questions, they keep them to themselves and swing into action alongside Mairenn and Luis, preparing the _Victorious_ to head out.

The trip home is uneventful, if somewhat slower than Finnick would like. The skies remain clear and the winds steady and the moon is on the rise when they draw near to the cove. The moon’s light is plenty bright enough to illuminate a strange boat at anchor beside the _Notorious_. Inside the minefield. Looking past the two boats, he sees figures on the beach moving back and forth between a couple of fires, but they’re too far away to make out voices.

He feels Annie come up beside him, knowing it’s her before she says, “We have visitors.”

“Looks like. And it’s someone Paul trusts.” He glances at her. “Where’s your bird?”

“Asleep on the bed frame.” She stretches up to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m sorry I left you.” Her apology is for more than simply leaving him asleep on the beach. He slips an arm around her waist and pulls her close.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Kissing her on the forehead, he continues, “Shall we go see who our visitors are?” Sliding her arm around his waist, she nods and Finnick guides the ketch into the cove and a few minutes later, the _Victorious_ rests at anchor with the cutter and the strange fishing boat and her crew is on the beach.

Finnick jumps into the water when they’re close enough to help Kian pull the skiff up onto the sand. Paul wades out to join them.

“We have visitors,” he warns and Finnick shoots him a look.

“No kidding.” He doesn’t ask for an explanation and Paul grins.

“I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised…”

Just then Finnick hears Mairenn shout, “Mama!” He straightens abruptly and turns toward the group gathered around the fire in time to see Mair throw herself into her mother’s waiting arms. Beside them, Xal moves in to join the hug. And then his gaze fixes on the woman striding down the sand toward him and he’s suddenly fourteen again.

“Mom?”

Laughing and crying at the same time, Jenna Odair pulls her youngest child into her arms and he clings to her. Whoever brought them here and why, at that moment, he just doesn’t care.


	3. Dead or Alive

**Chapter 3 – Dead or Alive**

Annie sits with Jenna in a cozy, windowless room in a small house three blocks from the town square, and she can’t stop fidgeting. She’s nervous and, if she’s being truthful with herself, she’s scared. She woke that morning to the sight of blood on her thighs and staining the sheets and she couldn’t stop herself – she screamed. And when she screamed, the macaw screamed right along with her. Finnick had come running in from outside, followed soon after by Paul and then Jenna, who had shooed both men and macaw from the shelter and yanked the curtain across to cut off their view, promising her son that Annie would be fine.

“Child,” she says now, “Nan Bailey has been a midwife for almost thirty years. She helped me when Finnick was born – in fact, that’s how we met – and she’ll take care of you now.” Unable to sit still any longer, Annie jumps up from the chair and wanders around the room, glancing at knick knacks and heirlooms scattered over tables and bookshelves, occasionally glancing at the television in the corner. There are no windows.

The room is cluttered, but not in a bad way. Very little appears to be expensive and many things look like someone made them by hand – lace doilies and knitted blankets, watercolor paintings in driftwood frames, small figurines and large ones carved from polished wood of different colors and grains, a clay seagull with pale sea glass eyes that looks like a child might have made it. On closer inspection, Annie sees scars on the walls in several places that look as though someone pried something from them, the marks covered by a few of the watercolors. She picks up a ceramic bowl, stained in subtle shades of blue and green and purple, only to find a gouge in the wood table beneath. _The war visited her here_ , she realizes.

_“… along the border between Districts Seven and Nine.”_ She looks over at the television where grainy, jumpy footage plays showing several people on horseback harrying a train marked with the seal of the Capitol. The scene changes to a man with unnaturally blue eyes, but who looks otherwise perfectly normal. _“I was terrified,”_ he says. _“I just knew she was going to kill us all after she had one of her minions go around with a sack and collect all of our valuables.”_ He shudders visibly and his companion, a dark-skinned woman with light green eyes steps closer to him and says, clinging to the man’s arm, _“The man was only a couple of inches taller than she was and his eyes were silver. Oh, but the whole ordeal was just awful.”_ Annie almost laughs; the woman’s words say it was awful, but her expression says she wants to go back and do it all again. _“He called me ‘sweetheart.’”_

“All right, my dear, let’s have a look at you.” A woman with golden skin and golden eyes and wearing a gold-colored dress breezes into the room and sweeps past Annie, who hastily returns the pretty sea-colored bowl to its place on the table. The golden woman, who can only be Jenna’s friend Nan, stops in front of the television and switches it off before turning back toward Annie. “Well, you certainly are a pretty little thing, aren’t you? What’s your name, girl?”

“Annie…” Before she can finish, Nan turns to Jenna.

“One of your youngest’s girlfriends, Jenna? That boy of yours is too pretty by far.” Annie frowns, not at all happy either with being ignored or with Nan’s dismissive attitude toward Finnick. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before he got one of them—” Anger pushes her fear and her nerves away, and Annie steps in front of Nan, forcing Nan to acknowledge her.

“My name is Anwyn Cresta Odair and I am not one of Finnick’s girlfriends, I am his wife and I don’t appreciate you treating me like I’m not even here or insulting my husband and—”

“Annie.” One word from Jenna and Annie stops, the fear flooding back into her. Not of this strange woman, but of the blood on the sheets. She crosses her arms over her stomach and closes her eyes against sudden tears. Jenna had assured her that it wasn’t that much blood, but it was still blood and it wasn’t supposed to be there at all. _I can’t lose this one, too._

A gentle hand strokes her cheek and Annie opens her eyes again. Nan drops her hand to Annie’s shoulder and raises her other hand, too, pulling Annie into a hug before Annie can escape. “I apologize, Mrs. Odair. I let my mouth run away with me sometimes. I shouldn’t have said that about our sweet Finnick. He’s a good boy. It’s not his fault the Capitol got its clutches into him so young.” Annie stiffens.

“Nan Bailey, you are unbelievable.” Jenna sounds more exasperated than anything else, as though she’s heard it before and doesn’t care to hear it again. “Annie needs your help, not your overblown opinions.”

With a dramatic sigh, Nan says, “I suppose you’re right, Jenna.” She releases Annie from the hug and, taking her by the hands, leads her over to a formal sofa, burgundy velvet and dark wood, threadbare on its edges and missing a bit of trim on the left-most seat cushion. “How pregnant are you, Mrs. Annie?”

“Excuse me?”

“How long?” Nan smiles and lightly pats Annie’s stomach while Annie clenches her teeth. Jenna had warned her that Nan, as much because of her profession as her personality, doesn’t always respect personal space.

“About five months, I think.” Nan rests her hand on Annie’s abdomen, fingers spread. She applies a bit of pressure, shifts her hand to the left and then to the right and the baby moves, making Annie gasp. “Well, that was certainly a healthy kick.” She removes her hand and Annie breathes a sigh of relief. “Jenna says you experienced some bleeding this morning.” 

“Yes.” Annie nods. “I didn’t think that was supposed to happen.”

“It isn’t, but it’s not necessarily a problem.” She turns toward Jenna. “I’m going to take a look at our girl here, Jenna, so would you please wait out in the hall?” Annie’s gaze flies to Jenna as a distant roaring fills her head. She doesn’t know this woman, no matter that Jenna claims her as a friend, and all she can think of is being alone with a stranger putting her hands on her so intimately.

“Please stay?” she pleads with Jenna. Something in Annie’s voice makes both women look at her sharply. Nan searches Annie’s face for a moment and then waves her hand.

“Stay, Jenna.” Her voice is gentle when she says to Annie, “I won’t hurt you, Mrs. Annie, I promise you that. But I do need to examine you and that’s going to be a little uncomfortable. May I do that?”

Annie takes a deep breath and holds it for a couple of seconds, then breathes out, “Yes.” She likes the golden woman a little better for having shown her the courtesy of asking her permission to touch her; that’s something the Capitolites of Annie’s experience had never done. “What do you want me to do?”

The examination is invasive and a little embarrassing, but mercifully brief. Nan strips off her thin rubber gloves when the exam is over, hands Annie a wet washcloth, and then walks over to talk with Jenna while Annie cleans up and dresses. There’s blood on the washcloth and she doesn’t know what to do with the thing, so she holds it until Nan comes back over to the sofa and takes it from her.

“When’s the last time you had sex, Mrs. Annie?”

“Um…” She glances over at Jenna, who simply cocks her head to the side and looks amused. “Last night…”

“I’m guessing you both had a good time,” Nan says and then she winks. Annie feels her cheeks grow warm. She nods. “Well, my dear, I want you and that pretty husband of yours to leave each other alone for a few days. Do you think you can do that?” Again, Annie nods. Nan smiles and lays a hand on Annie’s thigh. “Your baby is fine and everything seems to be normal. The only thing I found was a bit of abrasion in your cervix. No vaginal sex for a few days.” She raises one golden eyebrow. “A week, if you can last that long, but for at least three or four days, be a little more creative. After that, be a little more careful.” Annie wants to sink into the floor, but instead she straightens her spine.

_It’s ridiculous that you’re so embarrassed by this_ , she chastises herself. _You’re not a sheltered schoolgirl._ Aloud she asks her most pressing question, now that she knows the baby is fine. “No bed rest?” If Nan tells her she has to stay in bed, Finnick will be impossible to live with. But the midwife laughs and Annie breathes a little easier.

“No bed rest. You and that baby are both perfectly healthy, Mrs. Annie. If you’re still worried in a week or so, then you come back and see me.” She pats Annie’s cheek. “I won’t let anything bad happen to either of you.”

xXx

The freighter bears the markings of District 11 below the seal of District 6 and its hold is full of food staples – flour and grain from District 9, smoked or dried meats and powdered milk from District 10, sugar, canned vegetables, nuts and dried fruit from District 11 – the fourth of twelve Parcel Day shipments for the population of District 4. The three previous Parcel Day shipments had been loaded onto a train and shipped to the Capitol, and this shipment as well as each subsequent one is slated for the same treatment for as long as the District 4 victors remain at large.

Speaking into the microphone of his makeshift headset, part of a set Paul cobbled together using parts stripped from their captured Peacekeeper helmets, Finnick says, “ _Notorious_ to _Adventurous_. Morrison, are you in place?”

_“I am, Captain Odair.”_

Rodrigo Morrison – Rod to his friends – had brought Finnick’s mother, sister-in-law, and nephew to Victors’ Island two weeks before, one step ahead of the Peacekeepers. Snow had sent them to pick his family up once the bastard finally got tired of waiting for someone to collect on the rewards for his missing victors. When Morrison joined their group, he renamed his boat to fit in with the other two.

At the moment, he’s pretending to fish – _or maybe he truly is fishing_ , Finnick thinks, _he’s certainly the type_ – roughly one nautical mile north of the chain of small, uninhabited islands the freighter passes. Although unnamed on the charts, the islands are landmarks noted on the freighter’s official course, duly filed with Arturo Fallon, District 4’s Harbor Master; Finnick smiles ferociously at that.

“Ready, Paul?” Finnick calls to the ex-Peacekeeper manning the _Notorious’_ forward cannon. The _Victorious_ is still in the Sullivan shipyard in town while they step a new mainmast. She would have been done already, had a Peacekeeper cutter in need of a new command center not come in earlier. Marco’s father had no choice but to take care of the far more extensive repairs on the cutter first, telling Finnick to bring the ketch back once the cutter – and more importantly, the cutter’s captain – was safely gone.

“Ready,” Paul replies.

“Fire two shots across her bow.” Two loud booms and a dual cloud of smoke and Finnick watches a pair of watery flowers bloom in front of the long ship, riding deep in the water. He gives it a minute and then raises a bullhorn. “Freighter _Majestic_ , cut your engines and prepare to be boarded.” Over his shoulder, Finnick addresses Marco. “Any sign of their escort?”

“Not yet, Finnick.” A beat and then, “Wait. There they are. One cutter, looks like the same configuration as ours.” Finnick spots the eight-man cutter rounding the largest of the islands. “I don’t see the other one yet.” Ever since the fight the day of the storm, Peacekeeper patrols and escorts have traveled the waters in pairs.

“You both know what to do,” he says to Morrison by way of the microphone and to Marco, who grins and heads aft, ready to light the cutter up with the aft cannon if and when Finnick gives the order. The _Adventurous_ waits in plain sight for the inevitable second Peacekeeper vessel, but Finnick hears her engines spin up over the open connection. When they’d put together the plan to take the grain, Finnick was shocked at just how fast the drifter – an old design known as a fifie – could move under the combination of engines and sails. Backup for the _Notorious_ , she’ll be here in four minutes, less if the winds are in her favor.

The freighter continues on her course, neither slowing nor speeding up, while the cutter positions herself between the _Notorious_ and her prey. A good number of the freighter’s crew line the port railing, watching the two cutters face off as a woman addresses the _Notorious_. _“Outlaws aboard the stolen cutter_ Summer Meadow _, cut your engines and prepare to be boarded.”_ Finnick laughs outright at that; he’s still laughing, although mostly for effect, when he lifts the bullhorn again.

“Really? Is quoting me the best you can come up with?” He holds up two fingers, signaling Marco, who fires two shots toward the cutter. The second shot is close enough that the splash from the shell sprays her deck. “The next one goes through your command center.”

“More ghosts aft, boss,” Luis says from where he watches along the port rail. “The other escort is here.” The Peacekeeper captain sees her, too.

_“I repeat. Outlaws, stand down. You will be boarded.”_ Things are growing tense and Finnick is a little nervous, and more than glad Annie stayed home today, but he isn’t worried. The _Notorious_ alone, with her modified weaponry, outguns either of the enemy cutters, but they’ve armed Morrison’s fifie, as well.

“Morrison, you’re up,” Finnick murmurs, not bothering to speak into the microphone. The fifie will get here when she gets here and there’s nothing Finnick can do to make her go faster. A moment later the fishing boat sails into view, positioned so that she has a good shot at both Peacekeeper vessels. Finnick releases the breath he held.

“I don’t think so,” Finnick says through the bullhorn, his response to the order to stand down only a little delayed. “Peacekeepers, you are outgunned and outmanned.” Finnick has ten crew members aboard the _Notorious_ and there are a like number aboard the _Adventurous_. According to Fallon, there are no Peacekeepers aboard the freighter, only crew from 11 and her captain from 6; the men and women from 11 are unlikely to help the Peacekeepers if it actually comes to a fight. “Surrender your weapons and we’ll let you keep one of the cutters.” He hears something that sounds suspiciously like “Damn it” from the vicinity of the forward cannon and Finnick resists the urge to smirk at Paul.

xXx

Killing the engine, Annie uses the speedboat’s remaining momentum to swing around and drift into the dock. She used to love playing with Finnick’s old speedboat, destroyed when the Capitol bombed Victors’ Island, and she had jumped at the chance when Finnick asked if she wanted to drive. They’d acquired the sleek little boat just a few days earlier from a Capitol man they’d come across harassing a pair of dolphins about a mile south of town. As soon as they’re close enough to the dock, Finnick jumps out to tie off.

“Very smooth move, Mrs. Odair,” Finnick observes as he offers her a hand. She’s not so big yet that her movements are awkward, but she’s still glad of the hand up. Even with his hair too long and dyed brown again, the simple sight of her husband wearing the blue sweater she’d bought from Ed Macray takes her breath away.

“That’s Mrs. Moreno,” she reminds him and her cheeks flush at the breathy sound of her own voice. Grinning, he slips his arm around her waist and they walk up the boardwalk arm in arm, his hand warm at the small of her back, between her thin dress and the heavy sweater she wears over it.

Two days after taking the Parcel Day shipment from the Capitol and giving it back to the people of 4, they sent the freighter back to its native 11, and now she and Finnick are in town for a day of play and relaxation, the first date they’ve had since long before they were married. They had missed Finnick’s birthday and then their anniversary in October, and Annie’s birthday is still months away, but Finnick thinks that, with people still flush with that small victory with the food, it might be the best opportunity they’ll have to enjoy themselves without worrying that some random stranger might try to turn them in for the reward.

But just in case, Finnick is dark haired again and Annie red, her hair cut shorter than it’s been since they escaped the Capitol. And, too, if anyone asks, they’re Tom and Irene Moreno: Tom for his father, Irene for her mother, and Moreno for Mags, whom they both had loved.

It’s a beautiful, sunny January day. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, the air so clear there’s a nearly white corona around the winter sun. Annie and Finnick aren’t alone in the square, there are other people, but they’re all very careful to not let their paths cross; no one wants to be accused of breaking the prohibition against “congregating” in groups larger than two. But since it’s just the two of them, they stroll hand in hand around the shops along the square window shopping, and if Annie doesn’t look too closely, she can pretend that everything is as it was before the war. The reality is that most of the things offered in the shops, at least those that aren’t handmade by the people selling them, are used goods, pawned or outright sold to the vendors for less than half their value so their original owner could make ends meet. And there seem to be Peacekeepers everywhere.

After the first few minutes, and her husband boldly nodding with no adverse consequences to a pair of Peacekeepers on the corner between a small bakery and a souvenir shop that seems to be popular with Capitol tourists, Annie begins to relax. In a few of the shops, once the proprietors see that they might actually be able to pay, they see a few of the items from the freighter for sale to “preferred customers,” and Finnick remarks that the black market is alive and well.

Over the course of the afternoon, she and Finnick stuff themselves on coarse bread – what Annie’s gran called “peasant” bread – and seafood gumbo and dried fruit. They laugh frequently and generally have fun simply being together. And once, when he pulls her into an alley for a bit of privacy so he can kiss her breathless, the baby kicks him, making him laugh with joy and twirl her around before heading back into the market square. By the time the sun starts to set and the crowds to thin, Annie is tired but so very happy. She’d never thought she could feel this way again.

“Carry me back to the boat, Mr. Moreno?” she asks. Finnick laughs, a wicked sound, and she shrieks as he swings her up into his arms. Another couple stops to stare at them for a moment before moving on when nothing more interesting happens. “I was joking! Put me down. You’ll hurt yourself!” He kisses her, hard and fast, but ignores her protests as he walks across the square surprisingly steadily. A few yards ahead, a Peacekeeper tacks a new notice to the board outside the Justice Building, and when Finnick draws near, he lets Annie slide gently down to her feet.

“I want to see what that is,” he whispers in her ear and then takes her hand, twining her fingers with his once more as the Peacekeeper, his task complete, runs back up the stairs into the Justice Building.

“I could have done without seeing that, you know,” Annie tells him when they’re done reading it. The notice is yet another wanted poster, and this one is just her and Finnick in one combined poster. The pictures used are the same, but the reward is new – substantially higher – and this time they’re accused outright of piracy along with the usual charges of treason and rebellion and the like. With a glance at Annie, Finnick snatches the notice from the board and stuffs it into his jeans pocket.

When he sees her looking at him, he shrugs. “It’s not like they don’t know we’re here,” he says and, taking her hand again, leads her away. “Let’s go home.”

xXx

He manages to wake himself before the screams begin. He doesn’t remember what he dreamed about, not the particulars, and even the broader strokes of _arena_ and _Capitol_ , _blood_ and _fear_ quickly fade.

Cautiously Finnick disentangles himself from Annie and slips from their bed. She’s seven months along now and tends to sleep in fits and starts; he doesn’t want to wake her if he doesn’t have to. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a thick sweater, he stamps his bare feet into a pair of boots without bothering to tie the laces and quietly leaves the warmth of the shelter for the cold of the February night. The only one that notices him leave is Annie’s macaw on his perch near the curtain that separates their sleeping space from the others.

“Lighten up, mister,” DB burbles at Finnick and then returns to singing softly to himself. Finnick strokes a finger down the bird’s head and neck as he passes.

The night is clear and chilly and the stars are sparkling overhead. It’s colder than usual by a few degrees, the temperature in the low 40s, and there’s just enough moonlight that Finnick can see his breath fog out in front of him. He shivers and half wishes he’d put on another sweater and maybe some socks, but he doesn’t want to go back in and risk DB shrieking and waking everyone again. It had been weeks since the damn bird had done that, but for a while it had been almost every night. He and Paul had taken to calling the bird “damn bird” whenever they referred to it and Annie had finally decided his name was DB, just to shut them up. Finnick grins remembering her exasperation.

He makes quick use of the latrine and then walks down to the beach. A walk in the brisk air, even at 2 in the morning, will help clear the last fading wisps of the nightmares from his mind. He’ll warm up soon enough if he keeps moving.

The acrid, sweet scent of burning tobacco reaches his nose before he sees the orange glow of the cigarette. There’d been several cartons of cigarettes and a few boxes of cigars on the freighter, not part of the Parcel Day shipment, but rather the personal stock of the crew, but they were worth as much as the food on the black market, so they’d taken those, too. He starts to turn around and walk the other way, not caring who the smoker might be; he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

“Finn? Is that you?” Even if he didn’t recognize the voice, there’s only one person on the island who ever calls him by that short form of his name.

“Yeah, Marco. What are you doing up?” His boyhood friend raises the lit cigarette for another drag, making the end glow more brightly before he blows a smoke ring and drops his hand back down by his side.

“Couldn’t sleep. You?” Finnick shrugs.

“Nightmares.” The glowing end of the cigarette comes toward him and Finnick realizes Marco is offering him a drag. He shakes his head. “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” Marco laughs.

“Really? From what I’ve seen on television, you do just about everything else.” For a moment Finnick thinks about taking offense, but then he decides he’s too tired. It’s just not worth the effort. Besides, Marco is right. He _has_ done just about everything else. Some of it was even his choice. Even so, he also decides to follow his first instinct: he turns and starts to walk in the other direction.

“Finn, wait! I didn’t mean anything by that.” He catches up to Finnick, tossing the remains of the cigarette away and shoving his hands into his pockets. “It was just an observation.”

Glancing over at Marco, barely able to make out his features, once as familiar to him as his own, Finnick says, “I wasn’t offended. I just don’t feel like talking about my life choices.” _Or lack thereof._

“I guess that’s fair enough.” Marco is silent for a couple of steps, but he still keeps up with Finnick. “Is telling me why you’ve been avoiding me the entire time I’ve been here also talking about your life choices?” Finnick stops walking. There’s as much hurt as there is belligerence in Marco’s voice, and he thinks that just might piss him off if he lets it.

“Marco…” Marco stops beside Finnick.

“We used to be friends, Finn.” Finnick winces at yet another use of the diminutive. It might be the name Marco and Trevor, his two closest friends throughout childhood, had always used, but it’s also the name more than half the women and men who bought him over the years called him. He’s learned to hate it.

“Yeah, Marco, we were friends. But that was a long time ago.” He pauses, debating whether or not to continue the conversation. Obviously Marco wants to talk about the past. With an annoyed sigh, Finnick adds, “I’m not the one who threw it away.” Marco draws in an audible breath and then lets it out in a steaming whoosh.

“I guess I deserved that.” When Finnick doesn’t respond, Marco shifts from one foot to the other, back and forth, something he used to do when they were kids and he was uncomfortable. “We didn’t know how to deal with you, Finn.”

“Deal with me?”

“You know what I mean. After you…”

“After I what, Marco? After I killed people? After I came home when no one thought I could? After I tried to find some way to feel like a normal kid again?” He’d been so much younger than most of the other victors in his district were when they won their Games, almost all of them at eighteen, a couple at seventeen. His parents wanted him to go back to school, to at least get a little more of an education, a little more time with people his own age before being thrust into adulthood too young. But that lofty idea only lasted a few weeks before things became intolerable and Finnick had gone to work with his father instead. Some of the other crew hadn’t wanted him there either, at first, but he worked hard and tried to stay out of the way and they’d eventually gotten used to him.

“We didn’t know how to talk to you,” Marco says and Finnick clenches his hands into fists, wanting to hit the boy Marco had been.

“You never tried!” Marco flinches and Finnick realizes he’s almost shouting. “Not one of you,” he continues more softly. “I _needed_ you, Marco. You and Trevor. And you just walked away.” He’s surprised to feel tears stinging his eyes. He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking again, blinking the tears away. It doesn’t surprise him when Marco follows.

“I’m sorry, Finn.”

“Don’t call me that. My name is Finnick.” Marco makes a confused sound and Finnick glances over at him as they continue to walk.

“Sorry. But you were always ‘Finn.’”

Stopping again, Finnick looks out toward the shimmering blackness that is the water. _He doesn’t know_ , he reminds himself. _Not any of it._ The Capitol blocked the transmission to the districts of his propo; the only signal that got through was the one that counted for their purposes, the one that went to the Capitol.

“The Finn you knew died in the arena twelve years ago.”

“Finn…”

“I didn’t know how to be around me, either, Marco. My family didn’t know what to do with me. You guys couldn’t ‘deal’ with me. So that left me with what? Mags and the other victors offered to keep an eye on me if I moved to the house I was entitled to on Victors’ Island. They knew my parents wouldn’t move. But mom and dad said I was too young, and I didn’t want to live with either an old woman or a stranger, so I stayed, and I tried to fit in again, but I couldn’t. I was a kid, but I was also a killer.” He glances at Marco again then returns his gaze to the sea.

“I know what you all saw on television. I saw the same tapes you did. Those last couple of kills, when I won… Seeing myself standing over their bodies… I scared the shit out of me, too. I don’t even remember doing it. Not when I’m awake, anyway.” He wonders, as he frequently does, if the images of those murders that play in his head every night will ever fade. “I know what it looked like in the arena, Marco.” And he knows, too, what it looked like for all those years after. “You shouldn’t believe everything you see on television.”

“Do you think I don’t know that, Finn?”

“Damn it, Marco…”

Raising his hands, Marco says, “Old habits die hard. Why do you care so much, anyway? It used to be everyone called you ‘Finn.’”

“Yeah, well, since I turned sixteen, the only ones who have called me that are the ones who use me.” He hears the bitterness in his voice and he knows Marco hears it, too. He’s going to have to explain all of it; it isn’t the first time, but maybe this time will be the last.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Finnick laughs, but there’s little of amusement in it.

“You might as well light up another cigarette. This story is going to take a while…”

xXx

It’s the first day of spring when Annie waddles through the shop door to the sound of merrily tinkling bells. At least, she feels like she’s waddling; she also has to pee. The beautiful piece of drift glass that once hung in the shop’s window is gone, replaced by an equally beautiful piece of polished metal, beaten and twisted into something that might once have lived at the bottom of the gulf. Finnick’s sister had bought her son an old, battered guitar here, a lifetime ago, and although the odds are against it, Annie hopes that the old man who owns the shop might have another somewhere in his stock.

She misses music, in particular Finnick’s music. He hums sometimes, tunes both familiar and new ones that are all his own, and it makes her laugh to hear DB try to follow along, but she wants to hear her husband play. And so here she is, taking a detour on her way back to the boat from visiting Nan; in addition to telling her all is well with both her and the baby, the midwife had told her she still has several weeks to go.

Taking a few steps into the shop, she sees a few changes since she was last here. There are fewer items for sale and on display, for one thing, but it isn’t until she reaches the far corner by another oddly placed window that she realizes the back wall is farther forward than it used to be, making the sales floor smaller. A young woman comes through a beaded doorway on that back wall and heads toward Annie with a smile.

“Good morning! What can I show you?”

“I was wondering if you might have a guitar for sale.” The woman’s smile brightens as it reaches her eyes and she leads Annie toward a glass case in the opposite corner.

xXx

Even as his fingers dance over the strings, Finnick knows he’ll have to stop playing soon or risk actually bleeding on them. It’s been far too long since he played and his fingertips have grown soft. The song reaches a crescendo and he ends it with a slap of his hand against the wood of the guitar. Sitting on Annie’s padded right shoulder, DB continues to bob his head and warble for a few seconds after and Finnick shakes his head, laughing.

A moment later, Kevan runs down the hill shouting, “Visitors!” Finnick stands and looks out toward the water where the boy points and sees a low-slung ship just outside their perimeter. After Ricia, one of their newer recruits, nearly blew herself up coming in back in February, they’d put orange marker buoys in the water a good twenty feet out from the outermost ring of mines. The Peacekeepers already know about the mines, had lost another boat to them since that first one last December, so he thought marking the perimeter while the new people learned it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

“At least they have the good sense to stop outside the markers,” he remarks to Annie where she stands on his right as Paul comes to a stop at his left.

“Their markings say they’re from Eleven,” Paul tells Finnick and hands him a pair of binoculars.

“Eleven…?” Annie says, shading her eyes with her left hand. DB repeats the word, sounding, if not like Annie, at least more like a human woman than a bird. “What are they doing so far from home?”

“I don’t know.” Finnick glances over at Paul. “Wanna find out?” Paul grins.

“I’ll get my rifle.”

As it turns out, there are two boats from 11, filled with refugees from that district. They’re dehydrated and half starved and they came to District 4 looking for Victors’ Island, where they’d heard there was a group of people living free. The one in charge, a tall, thin man in his late 30s with dusky skin and gray eyes gives his name as Hilum and tells Finnick that his mother sometimes spoke of him.

“Who was your mother?” Annie asks, but Finnick doesn’t need Hilum to answer. He can see it in the shape of his face and the color of his eyes.

“Seeder,” both men tell her in tandem and Hilum smiles.

“If you have room for us,” he says, “we’d like to stay. I don’t think any of us knows how to fish ‘cept with a pole and a hooked worm, but we can sail.” He looks at the two large shacks Finnick and the others have been living in since the cold weather hit. “And we can build.”

The addition of thirty-one new people to their ranks, as well as two more boats, bringing them to half a dozen vessels, definitely brings on the need for housing. Before the day is done, they paint over the cargo ships’ identifying marks and the following day use them to bring in building supplies – lumber and nails, primarily – from the mainland. Edwin Macray helps them to negotiate for what they need and they quickly set to work building a dock and several small houses. Not sure if the freshwater spring at the center of the old village will be adequate, Hilum’s people put together a system of rain barrels and an above-ground cistern to supplement the island’s water supply.

In addition to the building boom, a few of Hilum’s people help Finnick, Kian, and Paul with a plan to refit their ships so they’ll be able to better help with their other operations. Annie jokingly refers to them all – men, women, and children, fishing boats, Peacekeeper cutters, and cargo ships – as their “pirate fleet.”

Finnick doesn’t know what the future will bring, but at least for now, he’s willing to ride the wave.

xXx

Three weeks to the day after Hilum and his people arrive on Victors’ Island, Annie goes into labor. The first pains hit right after a light breakfast, and she doesn’t realize at first what it is, thinking only that she’s feeling a bit of indigestion. It comes and goes in waves, hours apart, and when her back starts to hurt, too, she goes to look for Finnick. She finds him shirtless out in the warm sunshine, digging a garden plot for his mother. Paul, his nephew Xalvador, and Jenna are all there, too, turning the sandy soil alongside Finnick.

When he sees her approach, Finnick stops digging. Leaning down to the ground, he picks up his abandoned shirt and uses it to wipe sweat from his eyes.

“Everything okay?” he asks when she’s close enough.

“I need Nan,” she tells him, cradling her huge belly in her arms.

“The baby?” Annie nods.

“I think I’m in labor.” Jenna drops her shovel and hurries to Annie’s side, putting her arms around her shoulders and leading her down toward the flatter ground of the beach.

“Xal,” Finnick says, sounding much calmer than Annie would have expected, definitely calmer than she feels, “take Paul and head into town. Get Nan Bailey and bring her back here.” They’d discussed several times, including with Nan, bringing her to the island for the birth, rather than risking Annie being captured by staying multiple days in town. Or Finnick, for that matter, because he says there’s no way he’ll leave Annie’s side.

It’s past noon by the time Nan arrives on the island, and she looks like she’s prepared to stay for at least a week. Finnick and Jenna have been keeping Annie walking along the beach and Finnick is in the middle of a story that Annie is sure he’s making up, telling of a Capitol citizen and her creative hairstyles, one of which includes a Chihuahua named Antonio. Annie has been giggling or outright laughing for a good hour, in between bouts of almost nauseating pain.

As soon as Nan sees them, she orders Annie into the little one-room cabin she shares with Finnick and DB.

“The sunshine and fresh air is good, mind you,” she tells them, “but I want to reduce the risk presented by the sand and salt. There’ll be less of both inside four good walls.”

And still Annie walks until she can’t walk anymore, until the contractions are so close together she can’t tell where one stops and the other begins. She can’t stop whimpering as Nan has her lie down on the end of the bed with her knees bent and spread wide. DB, on his perch by the window, watches everything with great interest and when he starts making little sounds that mimic her whimpers, Annie can’t help but laugh. But when the pain becomes too much, there’s not much Nan can give her to relieve that pain, just a bit of willow bark to chew on. Medication is far too hard to come by and Annie’s baby wasn’t expected for another two weeks, so Annie’s whimpers turn to screams and shouts during the worst of the contractions.

The first time it happens, DB is half asleep on his perch and he jumps with a flutter of wings. A few seconds later, he starts to scream along with Annie and Nan shouts, “Get that damn bird out of here!” Even through his worry, Finnick grins at Annie and she starts to laugh again as Nan grumbles, “He was cute when he started, but I shouldn’t have let him stay as long as I did.” She tells Finnick to bring a bucket of soapy water to wash everything while she wipes Annie down with disinfectant wipes, but Annie refuses to let go of his hand. Jenna takes care of washing the room instead.

And on that warm spring night in April, fourteen hours after Annie goes into labor and by the glow of an oil lantern, little Margaret Odair is born.

xXx

“So where are we going, again?” Marco asks as he and Finnick make their way through the crowded square. It’s a hot June day and they’d just finished settling their account with Ed Macray and overseeing the loading of supplies onto the _Victorious_ when Finnick told Marco to come with him on another errand.

“We’re meeting my mom and Paul at a little furniture shop off the square.” The last time he was in town, Finnick saw a man and woman refurbishing a claw-footed tub they told him had somehow survived since the Dark Days and all he could think of was how much Annie would love to be able to take a real bath. He’d asked if it was for sale and when they said it was, he’d talked to them about price and come to an agreement. Part of the agreement was that his mother would inspect it, and if she approved, then he’d take it.

Jenna wanted to do a little shopping of her own before they headed home, so Paul had gone with her. Warmer weather and the upcoming Reaping Day bring increased Peacekeeper patrols, both on sea and land, so until the Games are over and things settle back down, if and when they go into town, they travel in pairs, just like the Peacekeepers.

And, too, there are new wanted posters with higher rewards tacked to walls and boards all over town, although the only faces and names attached to them are Finnick, Annie, Paul, Luis, and Kian. They’ve been careful to keep the others’ involvement with them as quiet as possible. There are also descriptions of the _Victorious_ and the _Notorious_ and Finnick hopes he can continue to trust the Harbor Master, although so far, Fallon has given him no reason to not.

When Finnick notices that Marco is no longer keeping pace with him, he turns around and spots him back at the notice board on the corner. He has the edge of Finnick’s poster in his hand when Finnick grabs him by the shoulder and drags him away.

“Come on. We’re late.”

The poster tears away from the board, leaving behind a corner and the “W” from “Wanted.” Rolling his eyes, Finnick tells him to just keep it and Marco grins.

“You’re worth a hell of a lot of money, my friend.” He waggles the paper and Finnick punches him in the arm. With an exaggerated show of pain, Marco folds the poster and slips it into the back pocket of his pants. “If I don’t collect on you, I’ll have this framed and give it to your Annie for her birthday.” Finnick rolls his eyes and gives Marco a shove toward the furniture shop half a block farther down the street.

Since their talk, he and Marco are much easier around each other, falling back into their old friendship in spurts, joking and friendly one minute, stiff and awkward the next as they learn how to act around each other again. Finnick has to admit that most of the awkwardness originates with him and those last years living under Snow’s control.

Jenna and Paul are waiting for them and Paul taps his watch as soon as Finnick walks in the door. Finnick nods. They try to spend as little time as they can in public places to minimize the possible exposure to patrols.

Turning to Jenna, Finnick asks, “So? What do you think?” His mother smiles at him.

“I think Annie is going to love it. It’s easy to see how it survived two wars. That tub is a beast.” Smiling, the shop owner steps out from behind the counter and offers his hand for Finnick to shake.

“If you’re ready, Mr. Moreno, I can have the tub delivered wherever you’d like.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just send a couple of my crew to pick it up,” Finnick tells him and they finalize the details for payment.

A few minutes later, they’re crossing the square again, headed back to the docks. On the way, Finnick stops at a food vendor; deciding to indulge his sweet tooth for the first time in months, he doesn’t notice the Peacekeepers right away, but he hears the urgency in Paul’s voice when he says, “Tom.”

He doesn’t do anything to draw attention, doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t obviously look around, although he sees the flash of white from the corner of his eye, but they head toward the vendor anyway. He pays for dried peaches and, keeping his head down as though he’s counting his change, he backs away from the cart. Unfortunately, a second pair of Peacekeepers leaves the street just behind the vendor and one of them recognizes Paul before Paul can do anything to hide his face. Realizing who Finnick is almost immediately, he shouts, “Odair! Stop where you are!”

Finnick breaks into a run, four Peacekeepers on his heels. He sees his mother start to run toward him and he shouts to Paul and Marco, “Go! Get her out of here!” A moment later, as Paul picks Jenna up and throws her over his shoulder, one of the Peacekeepers tackles Finnick and they go down hard on the packed earth of the square. Finnick’s chin hits the ground and he tastes blood. But then the weight of the Peacekeeper suddenly disappears from his back as Marco pulls the man off of him, and then they’re both surrounded by white uniforms and loaded guns.

_Fuck._

Eyes locked on his friend’s, Finnick raises his hands in surrender.


	4. A Gray Dawn Breaking

**Chapter 4 – A Gray Dawn Breaking**

She lies in the middle of their bed, her face buried in Finnick’s pillow, breathing in his scent. Her mind is a blank. Her eyes are open but unseeing.

_He’s gone._

A distant part of her brain recognizes that DB is singing a lullaby from his perch near the open window, his voice a surprisingly pure tenor, although the words themselves are indistinct and interspersed with clicking sounds, as though he has a beak full of marbles. It seems as though the bird is trying to soothe her and she fights against hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble up – if it escapes, she’s afraid she’ll choke on it.

_He’s gone._

Annie blinks slowly, the movement nothing more than her brain sending the signal to her eyelids to close and then open, distributing needed moisture over her eyes. Light. Dark. Light.

_He’s gone._

“You didn’t think I’d let you keep him, did you, my dear?” Snow’s cultured Capitol tones are loud in her ears and she curls her body more tightly around Finnick’s pillow.

“You’re not real,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from crying, from shouting – at Paul, at Jenna, at herself, at Marco, and most of all at Finnick.

“Are you so certain of that, Miss Cresta?”

Snow isn’t here. She knows that. He can’t be here. If he was here, she’d smell that awful, cloying stench of roses and blood that Finnick had told her long ago was the result of poison and its antidote, but the only thing she smells is clean linen and Finnick.

Finnick.

_He’s gone._

When the _Victorious_ returned, her crew was short two men. But far more importantly, when the _Victorious_ returned, Annie was short her world, her life, her soul.

“You’re being a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?” Snow whispers in her ear. Annie feels the sickening warmth of his breath – the summer breeze slipping in through the open window behind her – stirring the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck and she shivers.

“Go to hell.”

“I’m going to kill him, you know.” Snow’s tone is conversational. _I’m going to have a cup of tea, you know._

“No. I won’t let you.” Snow laughs.

“And how are you going to stop me, Miss Cresta?”

“Odair. My name is Annie Odair,” she whispers. Behind her DB stops singing and instead starts to repeat “Odair” over and over. “Finnick Odair is my husband and you can’t have him.” Snow laughs again, great, deep guffaws of amusement at her expense. At Finnick’s expense.

Annie uncurls. She sets aside Finnick’s pillow and swings her legs over the side of the bed as Snow’s laughter grows louder. Drowning out that laughter that she knows isn’t real, her voice is strong when she tells him, “Finnick is mine. Not yours. And I’m going to bring him home.”

Springing to her feet and shaking off the murky fog that threatens to engulf her, Annie dresses quickly, her mind spinning with all the things she needs to do. But before all else, although she needs to talk to Paul, she desperately needs to hold her little girl. Maggie is all she has of her Finnick, right now. Maggie and memories.

Annie runs barefoot through the door of the one-room cabin into the bright midday sun. It blinds her and she shades her eyes with her right hand as she scans the area, looking for – _Finnick_ – Mara, who she remembers took Maggie with her when Paul came to give Annie his awful news. Annie had been crying, she remembered, horrible choking sobs through which she couldn’t pull in enough air. Annie had been crying and Maggie had been crying and Mara had lifted the baby from her cradle and crooned to her softly, telling Annie that she would keep her safe until Annie recovered.

People are staring at her. Silence reigns, the only sound that of the ever-present sea. The sparkling water washing up onto the beach catches Annie’s eye and she watches it foam on the sand and retreat, leaving behind runnels and sandy bubbles. _What am I doing here?_ she thinks.

_He’s gone._

She raises her hands to her head, presses her palms against her temples. “No. No. No, you cannot do this now,” she says aloud. “Finnick needs you. Maggie needs you. You can’t let yourself fall apart.” She squeezes, feeling as though she’s forcing everything she is back into place, holding herself together by her will and her hands.

“Annie?” Lowering her hands, Annie whirls around to face Mairenn, who takes a step back. “Are you okay?”

_He’s gone._

Closing her eyes for a moment, Annie takes a deep breath and holds it. When she opens her eyes again, Mairenn hasn’t moved; she looks worried. Annie can’t answer the girl’s question, because she just doesn’t know. Instead, she asks, “Where is your mother?” She frowns. There is someone else… “And Paul. I need to talk to Paul.”

Mairenn reaches out a cautious hand. “Maybe you should go back inside…” Annie steps away from her.

“No! I don’t need to go back inside. I need my” – _husband_ – “daughter and I need to talk to Paul.”

“I’m here, Annie.” Paul’s calm voice sends a wave of relief washing over her. He isn’t Finnick, but, after everything he’s done since that night he so unexpectedly helped them escape, she trusts him. He won’t lie to her and he’ll help her to do the things she needs to do. Paul will help her bring Finnick home. She looks up at him.

“Walk with me?” He nods and gestures for her to lead on, so she does. She walks down to where the water smoothes the sand, to where it’s wet and cool against the soles of her feet; Paul stays where his feet will remain dry. She’d be amused if the pain inside her weren’t so great.

_He’s gone._

_Shut up!_

“We can’t stay here,” she tells him. “The Peacekeepers have Finnick and they have Marco and it’s only a matter of time before they force one of them to tell them the mine pattern.” She stops walking, suddenly remembering the night the Peacekeepers came for her, took her from Finnick’s parents’ home. Remembers flying over Victors’ Island and watching it burn. “No. No they won’t come at us through the mines.” She turns toward Paul. “They’ll drop their bombs on us. If Snow doesn’t get whatever it is he wants from Finnick, he’ll have them destroy us.” She laughs, not at all hysterical this time, but bitter. Oh, so bitter. “He’ll destroy us anyway.

xXx

Finnick sits on a hard bunk in a cell beneath the Justice Building. His head and shoulders rest against cold concrete and he picks at the metal cuffs around his wrists, just to give himself something to do with his hands; there’s not the slightest hope he can actually pick the locking mechanism. Not without something to use as a pick, anyway. Besides, even if he manages to free his hands, there are no windows, and two guards posted right outside the cell door; he’ll have to go through that door and those guards, and they’ve already demonstrated pretty forcefully their dislike of him.

He’s doesn’t know how much time has passed, they’ve kept the lights on and there’s been no food or water so far, but from things the guards have said, he’s pretty sure he and Marco have been here for more than twenty-four hours.

Anyway, he and Marco might make it past those two rather angry Peacekeepers, but not all the others between them and the outside world. All of them seem to be testy; Finnick and his crew have embarrassed them with their raids and their continued freedom. But it’s not entirely wounded pride. For the guards on the door, it’s personal. Apparently, one of the Peacekeepers they killed when they took the _Notorious_ was important to them both. Finnick is pretty sure the only reason they didn’t beat him to death before they threw him into the cell was a message from the Head Peacekeeper saying that, because he’d been taken alive, President Snow wanted him to remain that way. But alive isn’t the same as undamaged. Given that both movement and simply breathing are agony, he’s fairly sure he has at least one broken rib.

Marco stirs on his bunk on the other side of the cell, shifting as he wakes and stretching his arms over his head, but as soon as his hands hit concrete, he sits abruptly upright as he remembers what happened, where they are. The Peacekeepers hadn’t touched him, but only because they didn’t know for certain if he was one of Finnick’s people or not. When that Peacekeeper had tackled Finnick, things were chaotic and none of the four involved could say without a doubt whether Marco had tried to help him get away. He’s here with Finnick now because they don’t know what else to do with him and are taking no chances. Initially, they’d been in separate cells. It wasn’t until after Finnick’s beating that the guards had moved Marco into the cell with him and neither of them knew if it was because they didn’t want him to witness that beating or if it was because of Marco’s uncertain status.

“I told you to run,” Finnick says quietly. _Did Paul make it away with my mother? What did they tell Annie?_ “Why didn’t you?” Marco looks at him, blinks his eyes hard and then scrubs his hands over his face and through his dark hair, leaving it sticking out wildly.

“I need coffee,” he announces, his voice rough with sleep. “And a cigarette.” He swings his legs over the bunk and rests his elbows on his knees, hunches over facing Finnick. “I abandoned you once before, Finnick. I couldn’t live with myself if I did it again.” Finnick snorts.

“Fucking idiot. You have crap timing, Sullivan.” He closes his eyes and pounds his head once on the wall. “They’re going to kill me, Marco. And because you were taken with me, they’ll probably kill you, too.” At least for the moment, he can’t think of a way out of this cell. Not for him, not for Marco. Unless…

“I couldn’t just leave you,” Marco says and when it looks like he’s going to say more, Finnick interrupts.

“Shut up and let me think.” Some of the things the Peacekeepers had said when they were hitting him indicated that they don’t know who Marco is, that he’s not on the watch list one of them mentioned. If he can convince them that Marco isn’t one of his crew, they might just let him go.

There is the metallic scrape of a key in the lock and both Finnick and Marco look toward the steel door with its wire mesh window at the front of the cell. The door opens with a rush of cooler air that raises gooseflesh on Finnick’s arms, but it’s the scent that fills the room from that open door that makes him clench his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. The scent of bloody roses makes him lightheaded for a moment before a guard enters the cell and then steps aside to allow Coriolanus Snow to enter behind him. A moment later and the other guard deposits a single chair in the center of the cell before retreating once more. Finnick forces himself to remain where he is even as Marco’s eyes widen as he stands.

Snow looks over his shoulder at the Peacekeeper and says, “You may leave us. Close the door behind you.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Finnick asks, his gaze fixed on the urinal set into the far wall. He feels sick to his stomach, but his voice is calm and steady. _Why is he here?_

“Excuse me, Mr. Odair?”

“If you give me the opportunity,” he tells Snow, “I will kill you.” The president laughs, sounding genuinely amused.

“Oh, Mr. Odair, I have missed your sense of humor.” Finnick rolls his head toward Snow.

“I’m not joking.” Smiling, still chuckling, Snow pulls a handkerchief from his inside pocket and dabs at the left corner of his mouth. Finnick doesn’t need to see the scrap of white cloth to know that Snow’s blood stains it in smears and speckles.

“You have become quite a trial to me, my boy.”

Finnick laughs, a short, sharp bark of sound. “I told you months ago you should have killed me.” Snow doesn’t respond to that right away. Instead, he gestures for the guard to leave and then, when the man complies, Snow pulls the chair away from the center. More or less facing Finnick, but maintaining a view of Marco as well, Snow sits and crosses his legs, one knee over the other. The white rose bud in his lapel bobs as he moves, slightly loose.

“Oh, don’t worry, Finnick. You are indeed fast approaching the end of your life.” Finnick swallows and returns to staring at the urinal, stainless steel and completely utilitarian.

“Do you plan to hang me yourself? Or do you not want to get your hands dirty?”

Without taking his reptilian gaze from Finnick, Snow says, “Whoever you are, please sit down. You’re looming.” After a brief hesitation, probably because he doesn’t at first realize Snow is talking to him, Marco drops down onto his bunk. Only then does the President look his way. “What is your name, young man?”

“Marco Sullivan, sir.” Finnick wants to throw something at Marco, wants to shout at him for being an idiot, but all he can do is close his eyes. If he gives any indication that Marco is his friend, Snow will use that against both of them. It won’t take much to figure out from their names alone that they went to school together years ago, sharing almost every class.

“And how do you know Mr. Odair, Mr. Sullivan?”

Before Marco can give Snow something more to use against them both, Finnick answers for him. “He doesn’t. Not anymore,” he tells Snow, trying to put just the right amount of contempt and frustrated anger into his voice. “The bastard was trying to collect that reward.” Finnick hears the scrape of a shoe on the concrete floor, soon followed by a creaking sound from Marco’s bunk and he looks in that directions, sees that Snow is studying Marco, who looks like a rabbit caught in one of Hawthorne’s traps.

“Have you set a date yet for my execution?” Finnick asks, partly to take Snow’s attention off Marco and partly because some portion of him wants to know how long he has left. _Fuck that, Odair. You’re not going to just lie down and die. Annie and Maggie both need you. And you need them._

Snow turns cold blue eyes on him. “Your execution for treason, piracy, and other crimes against the people of Panem will take place on live television as part of the Opening Ceremonies of the 77th Hunger Games.”

Finnick looses another humorless snort of laughter. “July fifth. So that gives me… what? Not quite four weeks?” Snow stands in a swirl of rose-and-blood perfume and straightens his suit coat.

“Closer to three, Mr. Odair.” He cocks his head to one side, his gaze still trained on Finnick, not a single white hair out of place. “And you won’t hang. I have something rather more special than that in mind.” He smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. “A treat for your lovely wife.” With that he turns and raps twice on the door. A Peacekeeper peers through the wire mesh and then lets Snow through. Finnick hears him say, “Find out everything you can about their base of operations and the whereabouts of Anwyn Cresta. Also their numbers. I prefer that they all stand trial and answer for their crimes, but if they resist, destroy them.” Snow continues issuing orders, but the heavy door shuts with a clang of metal, leaving Finnick and Marco alone in silence.

xXx

_“Breaking News…”_ The words are a continuous crawl across the bottom of the television screen, white italic letters on a ribbon of red, and the stylized seal of Panem in gold as a separator between each repetition. Above the ribbon, Claudius Templesmith shuffles several sheets of paper as he looks into the camera, his expression serious. His pale peach wig is slightly askew, and Annie wonders why no one fixes it; Templesmith doesn’t seem to have noticed. She starts to turn toward Paul to ask if he’s seen anyone yet that could be the person they’re here to meet, but then a photograph fades into view in the upper right corner of the screen: Finnick, the photograph taken sometime during the 76th Games.

_“Ladies and gentlemen,”_ Templesmith begins, but Annie can barely hear him.

“Danny!” she calls. Beside her at the bar, Paul starts to say something, but stops, his attention on the television in the corner now, too.

“Whatcha need, Annie?” Danny asks, pulling a clean glass out of a tub of rinse water.

“It’s Finnick,” she says and points to the television. Danny dries his hands and slings the towel over his shoulder. Grabbing up the remote control from the shelf below the television, he turns up the volume loud enough for her to hear it over the white noise of conversation; within a couple of seconds, those conversations start to trickle away as the other tavern patrons turn toward the television, too.

_“… victor from District Four, convicted of treason eighteen months ago, has been apprehended amidst accusations of murder, kidnapping, and acts of piracy on the high seas. In August of last year, Odair, along with his sometime lover and fellow traitor, victor Annie Cresta, escaped custody, thereby breaking their parole. They departed from the train on which they returned to District Four with the victor of the 76th Hunger Games, Mairenn Odair, somewhere in District Eleven. Mr. Odair’s guard, former Peacekeeper Paul Rubius, is believed to have aided Odair and Cresta in their escape as well as in the kidnapping of Mairenn Odair, who has not been seen since._

_“Peacekeepers apprehended Odair two days ago during a routine patrol in the capitol city of District Four, not far from the district’s Justice Building. Odair, victor of the 65th Hunger Games and tribute in the disastrous Third Quarter Quell, is held pending public execution during the Opening Ceremonies of the 77th Hunger Games following the Tribute Parade.”_

Templesmith lays his notes down in front of him, flattening the palms of his hands on the desk behind which he sits.

_“Speaking as a man who watched Finnick grow from such a likeable boy following his victory into someone I thought of as a fine young man, it pains me to see that he has fallen so low, that he has thrown away the generosity and affection of the people of the Capitol and of President Snow in exchange for a life of crime. But actions have consequences, and no one is above the law.”_

Annie gasps and she stares at Templesmith. She’d heard that very line many times directly from President Snow during her months “in custody.” _Is this all somehow a message from Snow to me?_

_“I am Claudius Templesmith and this has been a breaking news report.”_

After a moment of silence, conversation resumes around the tavern and Danny turns the volume down again as the Capitol broadcast changes to a sports program. For all that she expected it, hearing on a nationwide broadcast of Finnick’s upcoming execution stuns Annie. She drops heavily down onto her barstool and stares blankly at the flickering screen. There are voices nearby, but she can’t make sense of the words, can’t even make out how many people are speaking. Something tickles her cheek and she swipes at it and her hand comes away wet. She blinks and then dashes away the tears as words begin to fade into her awareness and she realizes that Paul is talking to a man standing between him and Annie at the bar.

“How the hell are you here?” Annie hears Paul ask and she turns toward them.

“Marco? You’re the one who left the message?” They couldn’t use radios for communication because the Peacekeepers monitored all frequencies in the district, nor could they use telephones due to a lack of the electricity needed to run them. So they came up with a system of communication using coded notes left at a drop point in town, checked daily, but on an irregular schedule to reduce the chances of interception. Kevan Obispo had brought Annie the cryptic note this morning, asking to meet at the Shark Bait. She’d thought it might be Ed Macray or Arturo Fallon; it had never occurred to her that it might be Marco.

Marco looks from Paul to Annie and then pulls a stool away from the bar and sits so that he can talk to both of them without having to turn his back on either of them. There are dark circles under his eyes and when he rests his heel on one of the barstool supports, he bounces his knee rapidly up and down, a nervous-seeming fidget.

“Where is Finnick?” she asks him. At least she no longer has to worry whether or not he’s alive, thanks to Claudius Templesmith. And perhaps Coriolanus Snow.

“He’s in a cell beneath the Justice Building.”

“Why aren’t you there with him?” Paul asks. He sounds like a Peacekeeper and Annie looks at him sharply, sees suspicion in his eyes as he looks at Marco.

With a glance at Annie, Marco says, “He convinced them that I was only there trying to collect the reward on him. They asked me some questions about that and I played along. They let me go.” He frowns. “I went back to Victors’ Island as soon as I was sure they weren’t following me.”

“And are you sure they didn’t put a tracker on you?” Paul’s voice is hard and Marco’s eyes widen.

“Shit. Do you think…?” Paul shrugs.

“It’s what I would do.”

“Then I guess when I leave here, I head back to my parents’ house instead of…” He stops and takes a deep breath. “I was afraid you were all dead. I saw what was left of the island.”

“We got everyone safely away before they bombed it,” Annie tells him, but under the circumstances, she doesn’t tell him that they’ve moved to the chain of islands they found last November, which Annie dubbed the Storm Islands. Marco is right. If there’s even a possibility that he bears a tracker – and Annie thinks it’s likely – he can’t go to the islands. As it is, the only charts they appear on are their own, drawn in by hand.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Marco says, looking at Paul. “No one was hurt?”

“No one was hurt,” Annie confirms. “And Finnick? Is he okay? Have they hurt him?”

“He’s okay, Annie, but when they took us to the Justice Building, the guards there beat him pretty badly. I’m pretty sure he has a busted rib and at least when they let me go, they hadn’t done anything about it.”

“They probably won’t,” Paul says. “A broken rib would slow him down if he got the opportunity to run.”

Paul’s observation seems to spark something in Marco. He licks his lips and looks back and forth between the two of them. “President Snow paid Finnick a visit a few hours before they released me.” Annie and Paul exchange a glance. “He told Finnick straight out that he’d be executed as part of the Opening Ceremonies for the next Games and that however it is he plans to do it…” He looks at Annie. “… it will be ‘a treat’ for you, Annie.”

She closes her eyes, knowing she was right to suspect that news broadcast was meant for her. Snow was telling her exactly when he’s going to kill her husband and she can only think that his purpose in that is to draw her out of hiding so he can kill her, and possibly the rest of their crew, too. For a moment, all she wants to do is lay down on the tavern’s floor and cry, but then it hits her.

Snow is afraid of them. And if he’s afraid of them, afraid of her, she can use that to bring Finnick home.

xXx

Finnick stares up into the oppressive, consuming darkness. He doesn’t know if it’s night or day or how many days have passed since his capture. The only thing he’s sure of is that it must be longer than three days – the number of times they’ve bothered to feed him – but less than three weeks, because he’s still alive. No one has asked him any questions, but he knows that will come. They have to soften him up first, and thus the irregular light schedule and all the rest in an attempt to disorient him.

They started messing with the lights within minutes of taking Marco from the cell. Just as he had done with Snow, Finnick had told the guards that Marco was nothing to him, that he was only trying to collect the reward for his capture. And he’d finally convinced Marco to go along with it, in a whispered conversation they’d hoped could avoid the microphones that had to be there somewhere. The thing that seemed to convince the guards that it was truth was when Finnick told them Marco had a copy of the latest wanted poster in his pocket and then they found it in Marco’s personal effects. They’d come for Marco before the first meal, but after two cycles of light and dark that lasted for random amounts of time.

He sleeps a lot. There’s not much else to do, and when he’s asleep, he doesn’t notice the pain. Once he was alone, during one of the light-dark cycles he explored every inch of the cell. He moved like an old man, trying to keep his ribs from moving, but it didn’t work and the pain was excruciating. He searched for anything he might use to break out of the cell, but there’s nothing. Other than the door, there are only three breaches in the concrete of his cell.

The air vent in the ceiling isn’t big enough for his head to fit through, let alone the rest of him. The hole in the floor along the back wall where the toilet used to be is awkward as hell to use and also far too small to consider as an escape route. And, too, it’s starting to smell. The pipes for the urinal come through that same back wall and he thinks there might be some kind of crawl space beyond to accommodate the plumbing, but he’s not yet willing to try to remove the urinal to test that theory. So far, it’s his only source of water, another trick to reduce his resistance to interrogation. He has to be very careful about using it so he doesn’t foul his water supply; whenever he can, whenever he’s in a light time, he pisses down the hole in the corner. If he does try to pull the urinal off the wall, his guards will see it and stop him and it won’t matter whether light fills his cell or it’s dark as pitch, as it is now.

Finnick’s stomach growls and he tells it to shut up. He’d saved some bread and broth from his third meal when he realized they weren’t feeding him more than once a day, if that, but he ate that hours ago and he has no way of knowing when – or if – they’ll feed him again. As far as he knows, Snow didn’t tell his guards that he has to be in camera-ready shape for his execution.

To distract himself from hunger and his own mortality, he makes up a tune, a simple one that he’ll remember, if he lives long enough. When he makes it out of this cell – and he has to believe that it will be _when_ , not _if_ , or he’s lost – when he sees Annie again, he’ll put words to the tune and turn it into something for her alone. It’s not the first time he’s done this to keep himself sane, and he knows well enough that the odds are against him ever sharing it with her, but he’s beaten the odds before.

Finnick closes his eyes, but the only way he can tell they’re closed is by the feel; there are no visual cues, the darkness doesn’t change. Tears drip down into his ears, tickling, but he doesn’t do anything about them. He hums and he silently cries and he wishes for a piece of rope or string he could use to work knots, wishes for a way out, wishes for a way home to Annie and their little girl.

And eventually, he sleeps.

xXx

Angry and helpless, scared that if she doesn’t do _something_ , she’ll slip down into the murky waters inside her head and never surface again, Annie decides to take it out on the Peacekeepers. _Their wanted posters keep harping on treason and piracy, I’ll give them treason and piracy._ When she and Paul returned to the Storm Islands following their meeting with Marco, Annie still reeling from the news that Snow plans to put Finnick to death, she had Mairenn paint a new name on the _Notorious_. The former Peacekeeper cutter is now the _Rebellious_.

Waiting for the paint to dry, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to take her out until the next day anyway, Annie circumnavigated the main island, sometimes walking in the water and sometimes on the dry sand above the water line, but always walking, walking, walking. She wore the knotted bracelet Finnick wove for her the morning after they took the _Rebellious_ – she wears it still, will wear it forever if it would somehow bring him back – and as she walked she spun the bracelet around and around her wrist. The only times she stopped walking were when she fed Maggie or took care of bodily functions. Even when Jenna brought her food, she walked. If she stopped walking, stopped moving, she might cease to exist.

And all the while she walked, her mind whirled and spun. Did they still hold him in the isolation cell? Were they interrogating him? Did they beat him again? She thought of all the things she’d need to know to rescue him, because even though she knew that Snow wanted her to know exactly when he plans to kill Finnick, there was – and is – no question that she’ll do anything to stop that from happening. _But in the meantime, I want to make them bleed._

That was a day and a half ago. She still feels as though if she stops moving she – or Finnick – will die, but she no longer feels quite so helpless. The anger is still there, though, it simply has a purpose. Annie Cresta Odair is a great hammerhead shark, the Peacekeepers her prey.

With Finnick gone, Stefana Obispo is their best pilot. Annie lets Stefana pick the crew for the _Rebellious_ from the more than two dozen who volunteer; Annie’s only input is that Paul Rubius be one of them. With Finnick gone, Paul is the only one Annie trusts completely. Those who remain will man the _Victorious_.

They set out just after sunset. Their sails are as gray and difficult to see in the dark of night as their hulls. They use hooded lanterns rather than the onboard lights when they need to see, and that only briefly; otherwise, they run dark, something they’ve practiced from the very start to give them the advantage of surprise.

They find their first Peacekeeper patrol two hours after they leave the Storm Islands and they take both cutters – one eight-man and one six-man – without a shot fired. The Peacekeeper crews don’t see them coming; they’re not expecting trouble this far out and perhaps believe that they destroyed the pirates when they bombed Victors’ Island. Annie has her people fire grappling hooks at the larger boat first, ropes trailing behind the hooks and attached to winches. They board and have the cutter at their mercy before her crew has a chance to fight back. Her own people man the newly taken cutter’s guns and Annie stands with a gun to the head of the boat’s captain, in plain view of his counterpart on the smaller boat, as she makes her demands; the second boat surrenders almost immediately.

She sends their prizes home with skeleton crews along with orders for the next team – the _Adventurous_ and an as yet unnamed Peackekeeper schooner they took just a few days before Finnick’s capture – to start their own hunt. The _Victorious_ deposits the prisoners on the blasted shores of Victors’ Island while Annie’s _Rebellious_ runs alongside her, guarding. She takes their uniforms and their guns, leaving them their underwear and their lives. She won’t kill them needlessly.

Once Annie gives the order to up anchor and head for home, using Finnick’s bullhorn, she calls to the Peacekeepers on the beach, “Tell your Head that our raids will stop when Finnick Odair is returned to us safe and unharmed.” Her voice is steady and hard, but inside she’s screaming.

xXx

Several more cycles of light and dark pass and they feed him three more times before the questions begin.

_How many are in your group? Give us their names. Who is helping you? Give us their names. How do you communicate with your accomplices? Tell us the location of your new base of operations. Give us a diagram of the mines surrounding the base._

Finnick remains alone in his cell as they question him, just a voice coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Sometimes his cell is brightly lit, sometimes he’s immersed in utter darkness, but always the same questions, over and over. He takes strength from the information they let slip with their questions: they don’t know where his people are. They know all about Victors’ Island, but they ask about a “new base.” Annie moved them somewhere else. She outsmarted the Peacekeepers and they can’t stand it. He smiles and gives them flippant answers – hundreds in his crew, telepathic communication, President Snow and their own Head Peacekeeper helping them – and that’s when the two who beat him before come in and beat him again.

There aren’t any questions for a while after that.

xXx

Legs folded in front of her like a pretzel, Annie sits on the beach with Maggie in her arms; the baby sucks hungrily at her breast and she closes her eyes. If she wishes hard enough, maybe when she opens them again, the man sitting beside her will be Finnick. She feels the prick of tears and starts to rock, back and forth, back and forth, and Maggie’s pulls at her breast begin to slow.

The sun is low in the sky, its light warm on her face. There is no breeze, although one might pick up later tonight. Behind her are the sounds of voices and laughter and someone plays Finnick’s guitar. Probably Hilum. The staccato crack of a hammer striking a nail, the duller thud of that same hammer hitting wood as it drives the nail in deep peppers the sounds of life here. Those who don’t sail build shelters while those who do sail prepare for the next raid.

It’s been five days since the move from Victors’ Island, and two nights and days of harrying the Peacekeepers on the water. They’ve acquired half a dozen more boats to add to their pirate fleet. There are half a dozen fewer vessels to worry at them and each crew whose boat they take ends up on Victors’ Island with the same warning: the raids will stop when they give her back her husband. It hasn’t happened yet and she doubts it will.

“Annie…”

She turns her head to the left, shifting a bit with the motion, and Maggie releases her nipple, although her little mouth is still puckered and moving. Paul is watching Annie, but seeing her bare breast, he turns back toward the sunset and she smiles. She slips her bra back into place and straightens her shirt, all without disturbing her sleeping daughter, and as soon as she’s covered, Paul looks her way again. Still smiling, she ducks her face toward Maggie to mask it and when the little girl stirs, she starts to rock again until the baby settles.

“Did you have something to tell me?” Annie asks when Paul doesn’t continue.

He watches her rock the baby a moment longer, then, “I got a message from Enobaria today.” Annie stops rocking and her heart begins to beat faster, but she says nothing. Paul and Luis had gone into town with the speedboat that morning.

“How?”

“A mutual friend. He paid a visit to Marco in the shipyard.”

Since they couldn’t be sure that Marco hadn’t been the recipient of a tracking device during his brief incarceration, not without a full body scan of the type only available in the Capitol, he’d started working in his parents’ shipyard and gathering whatever information he thought might help Finnick. In addition to sending them word that the Peacekeepers are building something in the center of the town square, he’d provided them with the specs for the 22-man cutter they took the day before. The 150-foot vessel had been in the yard for an overhaul after the Peacekeeper command recalled her to service to combat the “pirate menace” in the gulf. Marco also told them that reinforcements pulled from District 11’s shores would be arriving soon.

“Marco left us a note at the drop and then I met with my friend.”

“A Peacekeeper?” Annie asks. She kisses Maggie’s soft, fuzzy hair and glances at Paul, who nods.

“Enobaria wants to talk to you. My friend gave me this.” He lays back a bit on the sand and fishes something from the front pocket of his shorts, handing it to Annie.

“A phone.” It’s small and matte black and has the seal of Panem inside a silver Peacekeeper sunburst.

“It’s been modified. Untraceable. Automatic jamming.” Annie raises her eyebrows at that and Paul smiles. “I believe the man who modified it is another victor. Beetee?” Her heart seems to skip a beat. “It’s only good for one use, so when you disconnect the call, the battery will burn it out.” He rolls to his feet. “Just hit the green button. It’ll ring straight through to Enobaria.” He starts to walk away.

“Paul.” He stops. “Please stay.”

“Are you sure?” he asks as he retraces his steps.

“I trust you.” She kisses her daughter’s head again, rubbing her cheek against the softness. “Finnick trusts you.”

“Fair enough.” He smiles at her. “You want me to hold Maggie while you…?” He nods toward the phone in Annie’s hand.

Once Anne settles the still sleeping baby in Paul’s arms, she presses the green button. It takes a minute, but then she hears Enobaria’s voice, muffled and with a slight echo.

_“Annie Odair, from what I hear from Four, you’re doing your district proud.”_

“What exactly have you heard?” Enobaria laughs, the same slightly unhinged sound she remembers so well from their time together as Snow’s prisoners.

_“For one thing, I hear that you are a bad woman to piss off. And I have a proposal for you.”_ Annie glances at Paul.

“I’m going to put you on speaker,” she tells Enobaria. “Paul Rubius is with me.” Annie suspects he’s with Enobaria, as well, but even if he’s not, she wants him to hear her proposal.

_“Paul’s a good man.”_ Taking that as assent, Annie presses the button marked “spkr.”

“How are you, Bari?” Paul asks.

_“Call me that again, and I’m going to come to Four and personally kick your ass, Ruby.”_ Both the victor and the ex-Peacekeeper laugh and Maggie begins to fuss; Paul hurriedly trades the baby for the telephone and it’s Annie’s turn to laugh at the normally unflappable man’s discomfort. Maggie slips back into sleep as soon as she feels her mother’s arms around her.

“What’s your proposal?” Annie asks. Enobaria speaks for a long time. Questions are asked and answered on both ends of the conversation as they hammer out the beginnings of a plan. When they end the call, the telephone begins to melt from the inside and Paul jumps, tossing it into the water with a sharp cry. Annie’s arms tighten around Maggie as the thing sinks with a hiss and a puff of acrid smoke; she stares at the resulting ripples on the otherwise smooth water and shivers, although the waning day is still hot.

But then she shakes herself and hope begins to rise inside her. She looks at Paul. Paul looks at her. For the first time in days, Annie thinks she might be able to sleep for more than just a couple of hours once she lays her head down on Finnick’s pillow.

xXx

The questions start again when he’s able to sit up without passing out and he doesn’t answer them at all; instead he sings whatever song pops into his mind, some classics and some his own creations, a lullaby or two, but then when he does that, they don’t feed him for so long he thinks it must be days. And when he still refuses to answer, they cut off his water.

At some point, weakened by injuries, hunger, and thirst, he slips into delirium and they finally stop asking their questions.

xXx

Someone is looking for Annie. A stranger, a man not from District 4, has been asking after her all over town. His accent alone gives him away, although everyone says that to look at him, he could be a native. He won’t give his name, but says he’s a friend. The oddest thing is that everyone he talked to says there’s something about him that’s familiar, like they should know him, that they almost recognize him. He’d asked about her in so many places that his inquiries reached more than one person who could put him in contact with her, if only they knew whether he’s friend or enemy.

Annie waits now in the shipyard business office for Paul’s trap to close on the strange man with no name who could almost be from 4 but isn’t. Her conversation with Enobaria almost a week ago had filled her with hope, but since then it’s all been a waiting game. Annie hates waiting. She feels like she’s spent most of her life waiting.

They’ve planted rumors all around town in the very same places the stranger has been asking about her, rumors of how and when they’ll try to rescue Finnick. All of them are false, red herrings to harass the Peacekeepers as much as her raids have done. While Annie understands the why of it, everything about this part of the plan makes her nervous. With the rumors come more and more Peacekeepers, a living, growing barrier between her and Finnick. When the time comes, she’ll smash through that barrier with everything she’s got and Enobaria will have the distraction she needs for her own people to move into place. She understands, but still she worries.

Unable to sit still any longer, Annie stands and goes to the window that looks out onto the bustling shipyard. A brilliant flare of light and sparks draws her eye and she watches a man weld a seam on the skeleton of a ship. Behind her, Teresa Sullivan, Marco’s mother, closes the ledger she’s been working on with a bang and Annie hears the scrape of her chair on the floor as she pushes back from her desk. A moment later she’s standing beside Annie.

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon, Annie,” she says. Annie glances at her and then returns to watching the light show created by the welder.

Paul had chosen the shipyard as the meeting place with their mysterious stranger because if it comes to trouble, the noise of the busy yard will cover up any sounds they might make and because it’s the easiest place to hide the body. Annie shivers and crosses her arms beneath her breasts. She hopes it doesn’t come to that.

On the heels of that thought, there’s a knock on the office door. Teresa gestures for Annie to slip into the bathroom, out of sight. Once there, she closes the door but leaves it open just enough to see when Teresa opens the door, letting Paul and Marco in. There is a man and a woman with them and for a moment, Annie doesn’t trust her eyes. Then she yanks the door open.

“Johanna? But you’re dead.” Johanna Mason shoots Annie a cocky smirk.

“I got better.” Beside her, Haymitch Abernathy, looking better than she’s ever seen him, clear-eyed and healthy, smiles and opens his arms wide. Annie practically throws herself at him as a sob rips free from her throat and both he and Johanna close their arms around her.

“We’ll get him out of there, sweetheart,” Haymitch promises and somehow, Annie believes him.

xXx

Finnick wakes screaming, but it’s just a nightmare. It’s nothing unusual, but his heart is tripping in his chest and he sees lightning flashes in the pitch black of his cell, phantoms of sight, not real. He scrubs at his arms and draws his legs under him, forcing his brain to let go of the remembered vines wrapping around his neck and torso, binding his arms and legs until he couldn’t move. He swings those vine-free legs over the side of the cot and pads over to the urinal. Ignoring the stench from the hole in the floor three feet to the right, he pushes the button and cups his hands, pressing them to stainless steel and then splashing cold water on his face. They turned the water back on the previous time of light; he’s made this little trip so many times in the light time and the dark time since he’s been here that he doesn’t need to be able to see to make it now.

The water helps clear his head. His chest hurts, legacy of the broken ribs, and it’s still uncomfortable to breathe, but no longer agony. He’ll live. And then the irony of it hits him and he laughs, finally falling to the cot in a fit of hysterical giggles. He’s still laughing when the lights flick on and the door opens.

Leaning back against the wall, he grins at his guards and it doesn’t matter – much – that they’re the same ones who have beaten him twice. He knows it pisses them off that he doesn’t fight them and he isn’t afraid of them. But they all know, from these guards all the way up to the Head Peacekeeper, that if he goads them into killing him, it will mean their deaths, too. It’s a form of insurance.

“Well, look at that,” he says to them now. “It’s Peacekeeper Guard Numbers One and Two. To what do I owe the pleasure…?”

“Stand up,” Number One says. Finnick doesn’t know their names and they look enough alike – golden skin, almond eyes, hair so blond it’s nearly white – that they could be twins. At the very least, they’re relatives, cousins if not siblings. He doesn’t move. Number Two grabs him by the wrist and jerks him to his feet. Finnick says nothing, although the sudden, violent motion hurts his healing ribs.

Number Two slaps metal cuffs around Finnick’s wrists and a collar and leash around his throat. “Bet you think this is the first time someone’s put something like this on me, don’t you?” He’s a little disappointed at their lack of reaction.

They lead him from the cell to an elevator and take him up two floors. Then they lead him outside and the morning sun is blinding after so long with nothing but artificial lights and his most recent time of darkness. The light hurts his eyes and it takes a minute for his vision to adjust, but they don’t slow their pace for him and he stumbles more than once as they lead him from the Justice Building across the square. Finnick feels the eyes of quite a few people on him, more than just the people already in the square for whatever business they have there. He’s sure people watch from their windows, too.

Number One and Number Two say nothing to Finnick and he doesn’t bother trying to get them to talk. They stop in front of a tall structure in front of the reaping stage. There are steps leading up about half the height of the stage behind it, maybe three or four feet. The whole thing is about ten by ten, smaller than his cell. In the center of it is a tall frame; the bottom of the frame is about eighteen inches tall and has a dip in the middle and a bucket sits under the dip, about eight feet above is a sharp blade.

“Four more days, Odair,” one of them says but they both smile.


	5. Rescue Me

**Chapter 5 – Rescue Me**

It seems to Annie as though she spends forever wrapped in their embrace. She’d believed for so long that Johanna was dead and thought that she’d never see Haymitch again. Her tears dry in itchy smears on her cheeks and she’s sure she managed to get snot and spit as well as tears on Haymitch’s shirt. Teresa Sullivan orders her son to bring food, says they can eat lunch here in the office where it’s less likely anyone will trouble them and when Marco leaves, Paul stations himself at the door while Teresa returns to her desk and her ledger. The office falls into silence broken only by the ticking of a clock and the sounds of the shipyard beyond the walls.

Eventually Annie pulls away from Johanna and Haymitch to look at them in wonder. Without even thinking about what she does, she reaches up to run the palm of her hand over Johanna’s hair, cut so short it’s only a little more than soft fuzz, dyed almost white. The effect is striking in contrast to her golden skin and brown eyes.

“Your hair…” Johanna arches one eyebrow but says nothing, challenging Annie with her expressive eyes, and Annie smiles. “I like it.”

Johanna shrugs. “I like to keep it short so no one can grab it, you know? Changing the color wasn’t my idea.” She glances at Haymitch with his dark hair cut short as well, but not nearly as short as Johanna’s. Silver peppers his hair and there’s the shadow of a beard on his cheeks and chin, but it’s light enough that Annie is sure he shaves it every day. His gray eyes are no longer bloodshot. He’s lost weight and he stands straighter than Annie remembers from their time in the control room and the victors’ lounge a year ago.

“You look good, Haymitch,” she tells him and she derails an inevitably snarky comment by stretching up a little to kiss him on his stubbly cheek. “But how are you both here?” She turns back to Johanna. “They told us you were dead. That you died in the fall of District Thirteen.” Seeing the glint in Johanna’s dark eyes, Annie narrows hers. “And don’t you dare tell me again that you got better.”

When they’d made their escape from the Capitol last August, Haymitch’s route back to District 12 was a train north from the Capitol through Districts 9 and 7, and from there east to 12; that’s all she and Finnick knew about his escape. As he tells them now, there had been so many train robberies in that area that Max, Snow’s assistant, had staged one to mask Haymitch’s departure. The news out of the Capitol reported that the train fell to the “Bane of the North Roads,” a highwayman whose specialty was train robbery but who also frequently struck at the Peacekeeper forces in the area, much as she and Finnick struck at them here in 4. The news reports made note of Haymitch’s disappearance and they’d hoped that he’d truly escaped, that he hadn’t died in what had turned out to be a real attack.

And then it hits her, and Annie’s eyes widen as she stares at Johanna. “You!”

“What did I do?” Johanna asks, frowning.

“You’re the Bane of the North Roads!” she accuses and Johanna grins and shrugs.

“Damned reporters tried to call me the Scourge of the Railways, but I thought the other had a much better sound to it.” Haymitch shakes his head, chuckling, and Annie laughs outright.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re both alive and here.” Johanna, along with Enobaria and Peeta Mellark, had helped her through so much when they were all Snow’s prisoners during the rebellion. They’d kept her grounded, kept her from losing herself. She owed them. “But you haven’t told me _why_ you’re here. For that matter,” she continues, spearing Haymitch with a look, “why wouldn’t you tell anyone your name?”

He shrugs. “Figured I was dead, far as the Peacekeepers are concerned. Didn’t want to change that state. And you wouldn’t have known any false names I could give.” He smiles. “We still managed to connect, little girl.”

When Marco returns with a box in his arms, Paul lets him in and keeps an eye on the door while the younger man sets it down on a table and unpacks it. The box contains a pot of fish stew, heavy on the fish, but a little lean on vegetables, a small keg of beer from the Shark Bait, and cups for the beer, bowls and utensils with which to eat the stew. Annie notices that, although Haymitch accepts a bowl of stew, he declines the beer.

Marco and his mother take their lunch and their leave and Paul locks the door behind them. If Marco does indeed have a tracker, they can’t take the risk that it isn’t like the ones the Gamemakers use, able to transmit voices as well as location with the right receiver.

“We saw the news broadcast about Finnick’s capture a few days ago,” Johanna tells them after swallowing a bite of stew, “and we figured you’d need help rescuing his sorry ass.” They’d packed lightly and started making their way south by way of trains, roads, and even by horseback for a time. They were walking at the end, a good twenty miles, and as soon as they reached the town, they started asking after Annie. “I’ve got to say, this town is loyal to you Odairs,” Johanna tells her. “No one would tell us a thing. Not until Handsome here,” she gestures toward Marco, “found us.”

Annie isn’t sure it’s loyalty so much as standing between outsiders and one of their own, but still, it’s heartening. Part of the plan she and Paul and Enobaria put together that day on the beach involves at least some of the citizens of District 4 pitching in to help Finnick escape, even if only in so small a way as to “accidentally” block the path of Peacekeepers in pursuit. Trying to set that up ahead of time causes too much risk of discovery.

Taking a bite of stew, Annie looks up to see Paul watching her and as soon as he notices, his gaze slides away. She frowns, filled with the sudden suspicion that he’s going to say or do something she won’t like.

“You say you’re here to help,” Paul says, looking back and forth between Johanna and Haymitch. In turn, they glance at each other.

“What do you have in mind?” Haymitch asks. He and Johanna sit side by side as they eat and Haymitch reaches for Johanna’s hand, the motion blocked from everyone but Annie by the desk, and she looks at them more sharply. The ring on Johanna’s left hand flashes in the sunlight that streams through the window before sliding once more into shadow.

“We need to get word to Finnick so that he’s ready.” Paul sips casually at his beer and Annie frowns. They’d argued and argued about the best way to do that and made the decision already as to who would carry that message. That’s part of why she’s on the mainland in the first place instead of out with the _Rebellious_ , causing the Peacekeepers more trouble. And yet, Paul continues, “I have a couple of contacts within the Peacekeeper ranks here, but none of them are able to get close to Finnick. We need to send someone inside.” His gaze rests on Johanna.

“Paul, no,” Annie jumps in. “We—”

Paul cuts her off. “I know how much you want to make sure for yourself that he’s alive, Annie,” he says, still looking at Johanna, “but I was never convinced you’re the best person for this job.” Finally, he meets Annie’s eyes, and although there is concern for her in his expression, she sees that that concern isn’t what drives him. “A better option has presented itself.” He glances at Johanna again. “Or rather herself.” Haymitch scowls at the former Peacekeeper.

“Paul, you can’t ask this of them.” Annie’s voice is hard and she deliberately uses that tone of command earned by days of raids on Peacekeeper patrols. It’s enough to make Paul actually listen. Turning her attention from him to her fellow victors, Annie asks, “How long have you two been married?”

Haymitch looks a little sheepish, like a boy caught stealing his mother’s fresh-baked cookies, but Johanna grins at Annie. “Finnick always told me he couldn’t get much past you.” She lifts their joined hands to better display the ring she wears, a simple gold band studded with diamonds. “We said our vows before we headed here, so just a few days ago.” Annie sees in both of them the understanding that anything to do with rescuing Finnick will be dangerous. “The ring was… _donated_ by a Capitol girl roughing it in Seven.”

“Annie,” Paul says, drawing attention to himself once more, “you serve better by commanding our little fleet when the time comes. You can’t do that if you’re locked in a cell, or worse, dead.” He turns back to Johanna and Haymitch. “If we let any of our crew be taken, the Peacekeepers will throw them in a cell nowhere near Finnick to await trial. He’s in their high-security isolation cell, two floors below the main holding area.”

“There’s just the one cell down there?” Haymitch asks, his scowl moderating to a frown. When Paul nods, Haymitch says, “So you need someone they’ll consider dangerous enough to put in isolation with Finnick, but high-profile enough they won’t just kill her” – he looks at Annie – “out of hand.”

Again, Paul nods. “Annie and I were the only ones appropriate, until now. I know the men in charge of Finnick. They’d kill me before I ever got within sight of him, which is why Annie was slated to go in.”

“Why not me?” Haymitch asks and Johanna’s hand tightens painfully on his arm, judging by his wince.

“You’re high enough profile, yes, but those two are fucking apes. After your role in planning the rebellion, they’d see you as a much greater threat than either Annie or your wife and whether that’s true or not wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. We need Annie commanding the ships for our endgame. People will follow her, but not so much me. And that means you, Johanna, are our best option, if you’re willing.”

“Willing to sacrifice myself, you mean?” She studies Paul for a moment and then stands, pulling Haymitch aside for a whispered conversation.

xXx

His guards remove the cuffs from Finnick’s wrists and dump him back in his cell, shoving him through the door and slamming it behind him. Regaining his balance, he rubs at his wrists where he can still feel the metal scraping against his skin. They didn’t bother to remove the collar from his neck so he reaches up and does it himself, throwing the thing with its trailing leash toward the hole in the corner; he misses and it lies there just inches away from his target, mocking him.

Too agitated by his own thoughts and his growing desperation to just sit and calmly wait for his end, he begins to pace, the image of that blade in its track filling his mind. He doesn’t want to die, but especially not like that. His death will hurt Annie enough without losing his head. Blinking back tears, he does his best to replace the image of the guillotine with Annie and Maggie, but with every step, that blade forces its way back into the forefront of his brain. It won’t let him go. But still he continues to pace around and around the cell until he’s stumbling more than truly walking, weakened by his healing injuries and by semi-starvation and thirst.

Surrendering to fatigue, he drops down onto his cot, but he’s still restless. His fingers itch with the need to do something. In a fit of frustration, he manages to tear a strip from the bottom of his shirt and begins to work knots with the resulting bit of fabric. His fingers fly, over and under and through, pulling the “string” taut when he’s finished, unraveling it all so he can start again. Over and over he weaves the same knot. He begins to hum, and if his voice sounds a little ragged, if his movements are a bit jerky, there’s no one there to hear or see. No one he cares about, anyway. His guards can watch all they want; there’s nothing he can do to stop them.

Finnick doesn’t know how long he paced, or how long it’s been since he started working knots after that, when the sound of a key in the lock the breaks the quiet of his cell and he wonders if they’re bringing him food. When the door opens, Number Two pushes a woman through. Her hard-soled boots skid across the concrete and she falls to the floor as the door slams shut once more.

“Fuck,” she says and her voice is familiar.

Finnick’s fingers go still and he stops humming as he stares at the woman on the floor. Her hair is very short and very blonde, her wrists are thin and the bones of her hands prominent under golden skin. It’s summer and warm, even in this concrete box, but she’s wearing long pants and long sleeves.

“Who are you?” he asks. He hasn’t moved from his place in the middle of his cot.

The woman laughs and a chill runs down Finnick’s spine, a frisson of both excitement and recognition. She looks up at him and grins. “You look like shit, Odair.”

He swallows, but his mouth is suddenly dry and he ends up coughing. He reflexively clutches at his ribs and when the fit passes, he says, “And you look like you’re alive, Mason.”

“At least one of us is.”

She gets to her feet and walks over to sit beside him on the cot. Her eyes dart over his face and neck, touch on the arms crossed protectively around his ribs. He has no idea what he looks like, hasn’t seen his reflection in weeks, but whatever Johanna sees must be pretty bad because those look an awful lot like tears in her eyes. His ribs aren’t hurting enough to need both arms, so he reaches out with his right hand and cups her face, wiping the moisture from her eye with his thumb.

“That bad, huh?” he says and she grimaces.

“The colors are kind of interesting, but I think you should ask for your money back.” He laughs and he clutches at his ribs again. “Sorry,” she tells him but he shakes his head. There’s nothing for her to be sorry for.

“How the hell are you here, Jo? And why are you blonde?”

“Wrong place at the wrong time? As for the hair, that was Haymitch’s suggestion.” She looks like she’s working out how to say something, and then she says, “Hay and I are married.” Finnick clamps his jaws tight to keep his mouth from dropping open. “It’s a long story,” she says and then she lowers her voice and he has to lean in closer to hear her. “But I’ll tell you all about it in a few days, once we’re out of here.”

His heart begins to race, his pulse to pound in his ears, and he feels a little light headed. “Annie?” he whispers and Johanna smiles.

“She and your pet Peacekeeper have a plan.”

xXx

Annie wakes before dawn. She slept fitfully, swimming back to consciousness at the slightest sound: Maggie whimpering in her crib, DB singing or holding a conversation with himself. Sitting up in bed, she listens but hears nothing out of place. She doesn’t know what woke her, although it might simply be her own fears poking at her. All is quiet, the only noise is in her head and that will become deafening if she lets it. So she won’t let it.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and, resting her elbows on her knees, she lowers her head into her hands. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, but she does neither. “I can do this,” she whispers, barely a breath of sound, but Maggie stirs in her crib just a few feet away. When the baby starts to fuss, probably not even truly awake, DB starts to sing and Maggie subsides. Annie lifts her head and looks at the bird, a dark blob on his perch by the window, wondering how many times he’s sung her to sleep without them ever noticing. Smiling, she stands and pads over to him, reaches out a finger to stroke his head and he leans into it, but he doesn’t stop singing.

Looking out the window, she sees the slightest hint of light to the east. Knowing she won’t get back to sleep, she splashes water on her face from a bowl that serves as a washbasin. She cleans her teeth and pulls her hair into a tail before waking Maggie to feed her, thanking DB for keeping her happy for that little while. When the baby is sated, Annie lays her back in her crib for a moment and quickly dresses; not caring what it looks like, she just grabs things she’s sure won’t get in the way in a fight: short-sleeved shirt, shorts, comfortable shoes with a good, gripping tread.

Pink and gold light streaks across the sky when Annie takes Maggie, fed and wearing a clean diaper, out onto the beach to watch the sunrise; she tries not to think about the possibility that it might be her last. The morning is already too warm, but there’s a breeze off the sea, so it isn’t uncomfortable, although the day promises to be a scorcher. Sitting on the sand with her daughter in her lap, Annie points up at the birds that wheel and turn in the ever more colorful sky and when Maggie finally spots them, she waves her arms excitedly and begins to coo and burble, sounding remarkably like DB. Annie smiles at that, but her smile soon fades.

It’s Reaping Day. In just a few hours, Annie will lead her pirate fleet into the harbor on the mainland, more than twenty vessels and crew, all of them well-armed, thanks to Enobaria. At ten o’clock, when the district rep pulls the first name from the reaping ball, Annie will fire from her position at the mouth of the harbor toward the Peacekeeper barracks attached to the Justice Building, over the heads of the people gathered in the square for the reaping. Enobaria’s people, fifty men and women strategically placed around the square and around the Justice Building, will take out as many Peacekeepers as they can while Marco and Haymitch lead a team into the Justice Building itself and down to the isolation cell, where they’ll free Finnick and Johanna.

She shifts Maggie a little higher and buries her nose in the crook of her neck, breathing in her clean baby scent mingled with the salt of the sea. The night before, Haymitch was as worried as she’d ever seen him, snapping or making cutting remarks for the slimmest of reasons. When Rod Morrison had offered him a swig from his jug of home brew, Haymitch had taken the jug and poured it out on the sand, calling the fisherman-turned-pirate a fool for even thinking about drinking the night before a crucial battle. Annie had said something to Haymitch about that and he’d apologized, running his fingers through his hair in frustration; his hand was shaking. She’d apologized to Haymitch in turn, telling him how sorry she was that Johanna was back in a Capitol cell, even if she was willing to do it for her friends, and that Annie would never forgive herself if something happened to Johanna. He’d accepted her apology, but hadn’t told her that it was okay. There was no room for platitudes, not after all they’d been through as both victors and as rebels.

Breaking into the Justice Building, freeing Finnick and Johanna… The hope is that their actions will cause a riot, if not an actual uprising, keeping the Peacekeepers engaged, unavailable for use elsewhere. The entire rescue operation is also a distraction to draw Snow’s attention so that he’ll focus his military on District 4 while Enobaria’s people begin an all-out assault on the Capitol. Enobaria and Lyme mean to start another rebellion, this time without interference from those with their own self-aggrandizing agendas.

To that end, men and women from District 2 began to arrive in town two days after the telephone call. Most of them never even tried to make contact, but the first pair to arrive had gotten in touch with Paul and worked out a delivery system for the gifts they bore from Enobaria: secure radios designed along the same lines as the phone they’d used to make their plans, and enough guns and ammunition to arm a couple of dozen of Annie’s people. The radios are now in the hands of her captains, making coordination so much easier for the blockade of the harbor and defense against Peacekeeper boats. The guns are in the hands of those who will take part in the assault on the Justice Building.

If all goes well, word of the uprising in 4 will spread to the other districts and more chaos will ensue. Haymitch said that things were tense all along their route down into 4, and according to Hilum, District 11 had been approaching a crisis point when he and his people left and he expected that things only got worse in the months that had passed since.

She smiles again, thinking of Hilum. He’ll be piloting one of the two ships he brought with him from 11, following Annie and the _Rebellious_ into the harbor; he’s been looking forward to using his water cannon on the Peacekeepers for days. “They used the damn things on us, often enough, if they thought we were too slow in loading the freighters.”

The sun continues to rise and people within their little village wake and start their day. Kissing Maggie’s forehead, rubbing her cheek on her baby-soft hair – bronze, just like her father’s – Annie whispers, “You be good for Gramma and Aunt Mara, baby girl. Mama’s got to go get Daddy and bring him home.” She hopes as she’s never hoped before that both she and Finnick return, that Maggie has both her parents at the end of the day, rather than neither of them.

xXx

The lights are on when they come for him, guards Number One and Number Two. He and Johanna are both asleep when they burst into the cell and drag Finnick from his cot. Within seconds, they have his arms cuffed behind his back and all he can think is _Fuck. Is today the fifth? Is this it? They’re taking me to my death…_ His last sight of Johanna is of her charging the door as they hurry to shut and lock it. He hears her shouting his name before it closes and then the sound of her body slamming against it.

They take him to a locker room two floors above where they strip him and shove him into a shower stall. Number One turns on the water and orders him to scrub as they both stand there watching him like white-armored gargoyles.

“So you like to watch?” he asks. He doesn’t know why the fuck he’s goading them, unless it’s maybe to have a less horrific end for Annie’s sake. “Should I put on a show?”

Number Two hits him, a single hard blow to his stomach that doubles him over, and rather than be beaten again, Finnick scrubs, watching gray and cloudy water sluice off him to swirl around the drain. It’s the first time he’s been clean in weeks and the absence of his own stink makes him wonder how Johanna could stand to be in the same cell with him. But then he remembers District 13 and what the Capitol did to her and thinks maybe she just didn’t care what he smelled like. As he’s rinsing, Number One hands him a safety razor.

“The Head wants you to look pretty on stage,” the man says and Finnick frowns. _On stage? Are they going to try to make me take part in some ceremony before they kill me?_ he wonders as he shaves. He wonders, too, if they’re acting under Snow’s orders, as he’d assumed, or under those of the Head Peacekeeper.

Clean and dry and mostly clean-shaven, he dresses in the clothes they give him, underwear, shirt, and suit all more or less his size. They cuff his wrists again, this time in front of him, and lead him from the locker room. When they pass a mirror, Finnick catches a glimpse of his face, all mottled purple and yellow and green. If this were the Capitol, they’d lead him to Remake to erase the physical evidence of the damage they’ve done to him, even though all they’re doing is leading him to his execution. He closes his eyes against the sight. Annie, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t stopped for a fucking snack…

But instead of leading him to the guillotine, they lead him to the stage above it to stand with Clarinda Pax, District 4’s Capitol representative for the Hunger Games, and he realizes he isn’t going to die just yet. Today must be Reaping Day.

Clarinda gasps when she sees him. “Mr. Odair! Your face!”

Finnick shoots her a cocky grin. “It’s a new look I’ve been trying out.” He would have said more, but Number Two yanks on the chain between the metal cuffs, making them dig painfully into his wrists.

“No talking,” he growls at Finnick. “Just stand here and act like a victor.”

So Finnick stands behind Clarinda and looks out over the sea of faces filling the square. And as he stands there, a hush spreads out over the crowd as they look back at him. A man toward the front raises his hand, first three fingers extended in a salute, his gaze locked on Finnick. Another man nearby sees and repeats the gesture. A woman behind them does the same, and then it flows over the crowd like a wave until nearly everyone in the square has their hand raised in a show of respect directed at him.

Swallowing hard, Finnick wishes he could return the gesture, but his hands are literally tied and all he can do is straighten his back and shoulders and wait for the reaping to begin.

xXx

Steering the _Rebellious_ toward the harbor, Annie is surprised at just how many boats there are between her and the docks. She never expected to reach the docks, but still, the sea of masts in front of her is a bit of a shock. There must be hundreds of vessels at anchor in the bay, unable to reach the docks themselves for the numbers of those who had arrived earlier, some as early as a day or two before. A couple of the boats closest in belong to her; one of them had carried Haymitch and his team to meet Marco while Annie watched the sunrise with her daughter.

As she slows the engines to maneuver in as close as she can, she hears Paul begin to swear behind her. “What is it?” she asks over her shoulder, keeping her gaze trained on the water before the cutter.

“Trouble.” The word seems to echo in her head. “Marco just sent word that Finnick’s not in the Justice Building. He’s on stage for the reaping.” The echo grows louder, begins to drown out the sounds of the water slapping against the hull, the voices of her own crew as well as those of the nearby boats. Finnick and Johanna are separated; Finnick isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

Annie’s hand slips on the wheel and the _Rebellious_ begins to veer a few degrees to port. She feels herself start to fold, but then Paul is there, shoring her up and setting his right hand on the wheel opposite her left, stabilizing and sending the boat back toward starboard and their original course.

“Steady, Annie. We can adapt. We’re not going to lose him. It’s just a slight course correction, right?”

She starts to breathe again and the white fog that had begun to crawl at the edges of her vision retreats. Color and sound return and she clamps down on the demons inside, trying to draw her down down down into the depths.

“Course correction,” she repeats, her thoughts beginning to swirl. “Yeah, just a course correction.” She straightens, steadying herself with both hands on the wheel and Paul steps back. She glances at him then. “I just have to make sure we’re close enough that first shot doesn’t miss and hit the stage by mistake.”

But Paul is no longer looking at her. “Annie, look ahead,” he tells her and she does.

It’s as though a path opens up before them in slow motion. Before she reaches them, the boats that stand between her and where she needs to be fire up their engines just long enough to take themselves out of her path. And as the _Rebellious_ passes, the crews along the opening way raise their right hands in a three-fingered salute Annie first saw during the rebellion that failed.

“They recognize us,” Paul says, smiling, as a man from one of the boats they pass, she never figures out which boat, shouts, “Bring him home, lass!”

xXx

The sun rises higher in the sky and the temperature rises with it. Finnick stands on the stage in his borrowed suit and he sweats. Numbers One and Two still flank him, the three of them standing together in the corner where the victors usually stand, but Finnick is the only victor they have. He doesn’t know whether to wish Johanna was up here with him or that he was back in that cell with her; if nothing else, it’s much cooler underground. The mayor, appointed by President Snow after Snow executed the previous mayor for treason, stands with her wife in the other corner as Clarinda Pax walks forward from the back of the stage, straight up the center. She stops at a microphone stand and he can imagine her smiling face as she waves at the people – thousands of people – below them in the square.

Beyond her Finnick catches a glimpse of the glittering blade of the guillotine and once he sees it, he can’t tear his gaze away. He can practically feel the cold metal against the back of his neck and starts to raise a hand to brush it away, until the bite of the cuffs around his wrists reminds him and he stops.

“Welcome, citizens of District 4,” Pax says into the microphone. She’s too close and the feedback whine is nerve-wracking. But then the whole ordeal is nerve-wracking and Finnick tries to focus on something other than that damned guillotine. His gaze falls on one of the pens farther back from the stage, the first-year girls all dressed in their best for their first reaping, and he has to close his eyes against the sight. “My name is Clarinda Pax and I am—”

The unmistakable sound of a cannon shot cuts her off mid-sentence and Finnick’s eyes snap open as the collective voice of the crowd in the square begins to ask what happened. A second cannon shot sounds and Finnick realizes that the first one hit the Peacekeeper barracks just north of the Justice Building when the second one sends up a cloud of smoke and dust and people begin to scream.

xXx

The silence that follows the cannon shots is profound, but it only lasts for a matter of seconds before chaos envelops everything. A cheer goes up from the boats and ships nearest the _Rebellious_. Suddenly aware of the enemy in their midst, the Peacekeeper boats out on the bay turn and head toward the public docks; when they move, her own people move into place, blocking them from entering the harbor. Her captains have their orders, their sectors to keep clear of Peacekeepers. As unbearable as the silence before seemed, the sounds of multiple cannons on multiple ships engaging is far worse.

She hears Paul behind her on the radio, speaking to someone in the square. Finally. He’d been trying raise anyone in that area ever since she handed him the radio twenty minutes ago, after she warned Haymitch that Finnick and Johanna are no longer together.

_“Well, that does complicate things a touch,”_ Haymitch had said. _“Don’t you panic over it, though, Annie.”_

She’d laughed, hating the slightly manic tinge to the sound. “Good advice for you, too, Haymitch.”

Paul tells her now, “I got through to Valentia. She’s near the stage and has him in sight.” Valentia is Enobaria’s, one of the pair who contacted Paul when they arrived in the district, a hard-looking woman in her forties. “I told her to make him stay put once she has him and to let me know where so we can pick him up.”

Annie’s grip tightens on the wheel and the sounds of battle fade for a moment. _Stop it!_ she tells herself, scrunching her eyes shut and shaking her head. When she opens her eyes again, she sees a Peacekeeper cutter make for an opening into the harbor, but as she watches, a pair of small fishing boats block its path with another, larger boat coming in to help. None of the three boats is one of hers.

“I need to get ashore.” She tears her gaze away from the battle to look at Paul. “Please.” After a brief hesitation – and seeing whatever it is that he sees in her eyes – he nods.

“Can you navigate the skiff through this mess?”

She shrugs. “If I don’t get shot.”

xXx

A bullet whizzes by his head and Finnick drops into a crouch. He spins, lashing out with his right foot, hitting Number Two in the ankles and sending him reeling backwards. He’d been standing a bit behind Finnick and when his partner tries to catch Number Two by the wrist and Finnick by the chain between the handcuffs, Finnick yanks him off balance and sends him careening into Two. His momentum as he strikes Two pushes the man off the back of the stage to the ground below, but Number One manages to hang onto Finnick’s cuffs, jerking Finnick further off balance and toward the edge. Finnick kicks at his face, but still Number One holds on.

And then Finnick hears a squeak and an aquamarine studded stiletto heel comes down hard on the Peacekeeper’s hand, tearing through flesh and breaking the small bones. The man lets go and Finnick gives him one more kick, connecting with his face and sending him flying. He rolls to his back and looks up at Clarinda Pax, horrified at what she’d done, her hands over her mouth to hold back a scream. But then she drops her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers – Finnick doesn’t hear her voice, just reads her lips – and she takes a stumbling step backward before taking off her shoes to run. Finnick stares after her as she dashes to where two more Peacekeepers, their backs to Finnick, herd the mayor and her wife off the other side of the stage.

With the sounds of gunfire and screaming, shouts and small explosions all around him, Finnick doesn’t try to get to his feet. Instead he crawls on his elbows and knees across the stage toward the stairs that lead to the reaping pens below. Swinging his legs around to get his feet under him on the stairs, he manages to get down to the ground himself. People are running and shouting, Peacekeepers are firing into the crowd and Finnick stops without intending to when he sees people in the crowd firing back at them.

A woman with tawny skin and a shock of copper hair barrels toward him, knocking a Peacekeeper into one of the supports of the structure that houses the guillotine; the impact sets the blade to rattling in its frame, but it doesn’t fall. Finnick throws himself out of the woman’s path, but she dives for him, tackling him. They roll and the first chance he gets, he kicks her in the solar plexus, but she somehow takes the blow in stride and closes her fist around his ankle before he can pull away.

“I’m on your side, Odair,” she shouts. “Paul Rubius sent me.” Finnick stops struggling and stares at her as she rocks to her feet and holds out her hand.

He stares at her hand, safe from the bullets for a moment in their pocket of shelter. Then he lifts his own and pulls the chain straight. “Can you get these off me?”

She kneels beside him and motions for him to spread his hands with the chain on the ground, the she pulls a pistol from her belt and holds the muzzle close to the chain. “I’m Valentia,” she tells him, and, “Hold still.” She fires the gun and the chain separates with a stinging spray of dirt and hot metal fragments, too small to really worry about.

Finnick grins at her. “Nice to meet you, Valentia. I’m Finnick. Where to?”

They dodge bullets all the way across the square and end up on the second story of a warehouse across from the Justice Building. Once Valentia checks in to relay his location to Paul, she takes her leave.

“Stay put,” she tells him. “Losing you after all this is a failure I will not be responsible for. Enobaria would have my head.” And then she’s gone, taking her weapons and radio with her, headed back into the fray.

It’s only after she’s gone that Finnick makes the connection. “Enobaria? What the hell?” He walks over to a window and, standing off to the side so he doesn’t become a target, he watches the battle rage below.

xXx

Annie and Paul go as far as they can in the _Rebellious’_ skiff, and when they can go no farther because there are just too many boats packed in too closely together, the people around them help them to jump from boat to boat until they reach the docks. Luckily, they don’t have to go too far; somehow they manage it without breaking an ankle or losing their rifles.

They’re halfway up the boardwalk to Dock Street when Paul’s radio squawks and he stops, one hand out indicating for Annie to wait. She moves in close enough to hear it when the woman on the other end says, _“I have him, Rubius. He’s on the second floor of a warehouse – pink stucco – directly across from the reaping stage. I’ll tell him to stay put, but I don’t know if he’ll listen.”_

“Is there any word on Johanna?” Annie asks and the woman doesn’t miss a beat when she responds.

_“Not a peep. Sorry. Check with Constantine.”_ Annie looks at Paul.

“He’s inside the Justice Building,” Paul tells her.

“Your Peacekeeper contact?”

He nods. “Yeah.” Before he can say anything more, a bullet streaks between them and they jump back, ducking for cover in opposite directions. Another shot wings past Annie’s head and she hears a third as she scrambles for cover, raising her rifle to her shoulder and waiting for a fourth shot. When it comes, she sees a brief flash across the street and fires toward it. _One shot. Wait. Fire a second shot._ She can all but hear her instructor from District 13 counting out the beat between shots.

When there are no more shots coming toward her, she stands straight and looks for Paul, but can’t find him anywhere. She calls his name once, and when there’s no answer, she dodges through the square, heading for the pink warehouse across from the reaping stage, but there are so many people, and then there’s a troop of Peacekeepers in her path and she ducks once more for cover, waiting until they pass.

xXx

From his vantage point, Finnick watches the ebb and flow of the battle below. Most of the civilians have found cover, running into the businesses and other warehouses that line the town square, leaving only combatants remaining. He can’t tell who’s winning, but it looks like there are at least as many Peacekeepers out there now as there were during the battle for the Capitol, and on this side of the square, they seem to be searching door to door. It’s a good possibility that they’re searching for him and he didn’t think to ask Valentia for a weapon.

There’s so much noise below that he’s fairly sure no one will notice anything from up here, and so he takes the risk and shatters the window using the brick someone used to prop open the door to the office he’s in. Picking gingerly through the glass, he wraps one end of a foot-long shard with silk torn from the lining of his suit coat. It’s not much, as far as knives go, and it’s nothing at all against an opponent with a gun, but it’s better than nothing, especially if he can bring it to bear in close quarters.

A crash inside the warehouse below sends him back to the now closed door, makeshift knife in hand. For a tense minute, he waits, holding his breath, and then he hears footsteps and the heavy tread of someone heading up the stairs toward his door. A moment later, the door swings hard inward and Finnick catches it with his left hand, springing forward with his plate glass knife. He takes a swipe at the man who barrels into the room, but pulls short when he recognizes him.

“Paul!” His gaze shifts rapidly from Paul’s eyes to the muzzle of the rifle pointed at him, aimed at the center of mass. Paul drops the rifle, the weapon slipping from his right hand, but he catches it with his left before it hits the floor and Finnick sees that his right hand is red, slick with blood. “You’re hurt.”

“Bastard shot my hand.”

They both turn toward the glassless window on the other side of the room as a woman outside screams, “HAYMITCH!”

Finnick doesn’t think, he just grabs Paul’s rifle – he won’t be able to shoot straight, not with that hand – and runs for the window. Down below on the stage, a Peacekeeper has a struggling Johanna held tight in his arms while a second Peacekeeper has hold of Haymitch. The Peacekeeper has a gun to Haymitch’s head, so there’s not much of a struggle going on there. Haymitch looks up at the window, his attention drawn by the movement there.

When Finnick raises the rifle to his shoulder, Paul says, “The man holding Johanna is a friend.”

“Then I won’t kill him.”

Sighting through the rifle’s scope, Finnick can see Haymitch and his captor more clearly – it’s his own guard Number One. He takes aim for the bastard’s head, the only part of him showing past Haymitch, but he hesitates to take the shot. It’s not a difficult shot, given how still his friend holds himself, but he is Finnick’s friend, and he’s lost too many of them already. If he misses…

Haymitch is still looking up at that window and then Finnick sees his mouth move. “Do it.”

Finnick pulls the trigger. Number One goes down, a bloom of red where the top of his head used to be. Haymitch jerks free of the body before it can pull him down, but Number Two is there, taking aim at Haymitch. Finnick fires again and Number Two spins away, his rifle flying off the edge of the stage, and then Johanna is running toward Haymitch and behind him, just a few feet away, he hears his own name.

He drops the rifle and turns in time to catch the woman hurling herself into his arms. They cling together for an eternity, neither of them wanting to ever let go, until Paul clears his throat loudly enough to finally be heard. Finnick doesn’t let go of Annie, but he does pull back enough to look at Paul.

“Maybe we should think about getting out of here while we can.” The sounds of fighting aren’t so loud anymore, although they’re still there. When Finnick glances over his shoulder, he can see that most of it seems to have shifted away from the square. It might even be safe to try to hook up with Johanna and Haymitch.

“Yeah, you’re right. We should do that.”

As they’re leaving the warehouse, Finnick stops, and so Annie and Paul both stop, too. Outside the door, Johanna and Haymitch are crossing the square toward them, arm in arm, followed by a Peacekeeper who must be that friend Paul mentioned.

Turning back to look at Paul, Finnick asks, “Did anyone ever pick up that tub?”


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Annie watches her daughter chase plovers down the beach. Maggie is only just learning to walk with confidence on her little, two-year-old legs, but running is something else entirely. Running is something Maggie learned to do – and do well – practically the first day she learned to stand on her own.

“We’d better stop her before she runs all the way to the mainland,” Finnick whispers in her ear, making her shiver. He tightens his arms around her and nuzzles at her neck, and that makes her shiver, too.

Tilting her head to the left to give him better access, she says, her voice a little breathy, “I think we’re okay. She’s on her way back.” Her words end on a gasp as her husband nips at her earlobe. He reaches up to cup the back of her head in his hand and she turns to face him, meeting his kiss greedily. Maggie’s laughter brings them back down to the beach again, and they watch her play with the little birds for a while longer.

“I never thought we’d get to have this,” Annie says after a time.

“Have what, love?”

“This. We’re both alive and free. We have a home and we’re surrounded by people we love.” Maggie trips and falls in the wet sand and looks up the beach at her parents. Grinning, she waves at them and pushes herself up again. Running toward them, her arms outspread, she throws her wet little body into her mother’s arms, trusting that she’ll catch her. Which of course, Annie does.

Finnick pulls little Maggie off of her and scoops her up into his arms. “We’ll be back,” he calls to Annie as he runs with their daughter into the water, splashing and laughing. She watches them swim and thinks back to the days when she’d almost lost him.

The day they brought him home, a second rebellion began. Enobaria and Lyme coordinated an assault on the Capitol that lasted for three days of intense fighting and culminated in the death of Coriolanus Snow, an arrow in his left eye, shot by Katniss Everdeen, who had gone with her husband, Peeta Mellark, to District 2 when they escaped from the Capitol following the 76th Hunger Games. When Snow died, the tide turned and though the battle continued, the heart went out of the Capitol troops and Lyme took the day, and later, the presidency.

Annie abruptly returns to the present when Finnick and Maggie run up the beach toward her and shake over her like dogs, flinging water everywhere. Then the collapse on her, all three of them laughing.

“Finnick?” Annie says a little later still, when they’re all three lying on the sand. Maggie is asleep between them and Finnick’s head rests on Annie’s right shoulder, the one with the scar from a Peacekeeper bullet.

“Hmm…?” She smiles at the sleepy sound of his voice.

“What do you think about having another baby?”

“I’m all for it.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few heartbeats, but then, “Good?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Annie? Are you…?”

“Mm hmm.” Suddenly, the weight of his head on her shoulder is gone and she shifts her gaze from the blue, blue sky to find the green of her husband’s eyes. He’s smiling and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen a more beautiful sight.


End file.
